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IBRARY 

^^«ERSITY  OF 


THE    MECCAS  OF  THE  WORLD 


ANNE  WARWICK 


BOOKS  BY  ANNE   WARWICK 

COMPENSATION 

$1.30  net 

THE   UNKNOWN  WOMAN 

SI. 30  net 

JOHN    LANE    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


020 


I'tul,  nrnnd  A-  Vndernood 
AN    AMERICAN    ALLEGORY:    FIVE    HUNDRED    FEET    AB()\E    HIS 
SKYSCRAPER,    AND    STILL    CLIMBINg! 


THE  MECCAS  OF 
THE  WORLD 

THE    PLAY    OF    MODERN    LIFE    IN 

NEW    YORK,    PARIS,    VIENNA 

MADRID    AND    LONDON 


BY 


i..:^\on^r\<,X^'^ 


ANNE  WARWICK 

AUTHOR   OF   "the   UNKNOWN   WOMAN,"   "COMPENSATION,"    ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

MCMXIII 


I .)  J    ^i 


^^7^  ^7^ 


Copyright,  1913,  by 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


C  11 


TO 
MY  FATHER 


CONTENTS 


PART  I 

IN  REHEARSAL 

(New  York) 

CHAPTEB 

PAGE 

I. 

The  Cast 

3 

II. 

Convenience  vs.  Culture 

16 

III. 

Off  Duty 

.       30 

IV. 

Miss  New  York,  Jr.          .... 

.        44. 

V. 

Matrimony  &  Co 

PART  II 

THE  CURTAIN  RISES 
(Paris) 

59 

I. 

On  the  Great  Artiste         .... 

.        77 

II. 

On  Her  Everyday  Performance 

90 

III. 

And  Its  Sequel 

.     107 

PART  III 

THE  CHILDREN'S  PERFORMANCE 
(Vienna) 


I.     The  Playhouse 
II.     The  Players  Who  Never  Grow  Old 
III.     The  Fairy  Play 


127 
130 
153 


CONTENTS 

PART  IV 

THE  BROKEN-DOWN  ACTOR 

(Madrid) 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I.  His  Corner  Apart 173 

11.  His  Arts  and  Amusements 187 

III.  One  of  His  Big  Scenes 205 

IV.  His  Foibles  and  Finenesses 215 

PART  V 

■  IN  REVIEW 

(London) 

I.     The  Critics 235 

II.     The  Judgment  ...,,..     248 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


An    American    Allegory  .  .  .  .Frontispiece 

FACINa   PAGE 

Afternoon  Parade  on  Fifth  Avenue         .  .  .10 

A  Patch  of  the  Crazy  Quilt  .  .  .  .  .14 

"  New    York's    Finest."  .  .  .  .  .30 

American  Woman  Goes  to  War         .  .  .  .58 

The  Triumphant  "  Third  Sex  "  Takes  Washington       .       G6 
Open-Air   Ball    on   the    14th    July  .  .  .82 

L'Heure   du  Rendez-vous  .  .  .  .  .110 

The  Soul  of  Old  Spain  .....     173 

The  Queen  of  Spain  and  Prince  of  Asturias       .  .184 

Fair  Enthusiasts  at  the  Bull-Fight         .  .  .190 

The  Supreme  Moment  .  .  .  .  .  .192 

A  Typical  Posture  of  the  Spanish  Dance  .  .     204 

The  Royal  Family  of  Spain  after  a  Chapel  Service     .     210 
King  Alfonso  Swearing-in  Recruits,  April  13,  1913     .     212 
"  The  Restful  Sweep  of  Parks  "     .  .  .  .     235 

London:  The  Empire  Capital  ....     252 

The  Great  Island  Site  .....     256 

Linking  the  New  Era  and  the  Old  .  .  .     258 


PROLOGUE 

A  play  is  a  play  in  so  much  as  it  furnishes  a 
fragment  of  actual  life.  Being  only  a  fragment, 
and  thus  literally  torn  out  of  the  mass  of  life,  it  is 
bound  to  be  sketchy;  to  a  certain  extent  even  super- 
ficial. Particularly  is  this  the  case  where  the  scene 
shifts  between  five  places  radically  different  in  ele- 
ments and  ideals.  The  author  can  only  present  the 
(to  her)  most  impressive  aspects  of  the  several 
pictures,  trusting  to  her  sincerity  to  bridge  the  gaps 
her  enforced  brevity  must  create.  And  first  she 
invites  you  to  look  at  the  piece  in  rehearsal, 


IN    REHEARSAL 

(New  York) 


THE  CAST 

Thanks  to  the  promoters  of  opera  houffe  we  are 
accustomed  as  a  universe  to  screw  our  eye  to  a  single 
peep-hole  in  the  curtain  that  conceals  a  nation,  and 
innocently  to  accept  what  we  see  therefrom  as  typical 
of  the  entire  people.  Thus  England  is  generally  sup- 
posed to  be  inhabited  by  a  blond  youth  with  a  top- 
hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  a  large  boutonniere 
overwhelming  his  morning-coat.  He  carries  a  loud 
stick,  and  says  "Ah,"  and  is  invariably  strolling  along 
Piccadilly.  In  France,  the  youth  has  grown  into  a 
bad,  bold  man  of  thirty — a  houlevardier,  of  course — 
whose  features  consist  of  a  pair  of  inky  moustaches 
and  a  wicked  leer.  He  sits  at  a  table  and  drinks 
absinthe,  and  watches  the  world  go  by.  The  world  is 
never  by  chance  engaged  elsewhere ;  it  obligingly  con- 
tinues to  go  by. 

Spain  has  a  rose  over  her  ear,  and  listens  with 
patience  to  a  perpetual  guitar;  Austria  forever  is 
waltzing  upstairs,  while  America  is  known  to  be 
populated  by  a  sandy-haired  person  of  no  definite 
age  or  embellishments,  who  spends  his  time  in  the 
alternate  amusements  of  tripling  his  fortune  and 
ejaculating  "I  guess!"    He  has  a  white  marble  man- 


4  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

sion  on  Fifth  Avenue,  and  an  office  in  Wall  Street, 
where  daily  he  corners  cotton  or  sugar  or  crude  oil 
— as  the  fancy  strikes  him.  And  he  is  bounded  on 
every  side  by  sky-scrapers. 

Like  most  widely  accepted  notions,  this  is  pictur- 
esque but  untrue.  The  Americans  of  America,  or  at 
least  the  New  Yorkers  of  New  York,  are  not  the 
handful  of  men  cutting  off  coupons  in  mahogany 
offices  "down-town";  nor  the  silken,  sacheted  women 
gHding  in  and  out  of  limousines,  with  gold  purses. 
They  are  the  swarm  of  shop-keepers  and  "specialists," 
mechanics  and  small  retailers,  newspaper  reporters 
and  petty  clerks,  such  as  flood  the  Subways  and  Ele- 
vated railways  of  New  York  morning  and  night; 
fighting  like  savages  for  a  seat.  They  are  the  army 
of  tailors'  and  shirt-makers'  and  milliners'  girls  who 
daily  pour  through  the  cross-streets,  to  and  from 
their  sordid  work;  they  are  the  palely  determined 
hordes  who  batter  at  the  artistic  door  of  the  city,  and 
live  on  nothing  a  week.  They  are  the  vast  troops 
of  creatures  born  under  a  dozen  different  flags,  whom 
the  city  has  seduced  with  her  golden  wand,  whom  she 
has  prostituted  to  her  own  greed,  whom  she  will 
shortly  fling  away  as  worthless  scrap — and  who  love 
her  with  a  passion  that  is  the  root  and  fibre  of  their 
souls. 

So  much  for  the  actual  New  Yorkers,  as  contrasted 
with  the  gilded  nonentity  of  musical  comedy  and  best- 
selling  fiction.  As  for  New  York  itself,  it  has  the 
appearance  of  behind  the  scenes  at  a  gigantic  theatre. 
Coming  into  the  harbour  is  like  entering  the  house 


IN    REHEARSAL  5 

of  a  great  lady  by  the  back  door.  Jagged  rows  of 
match-like  buildings  present  their  blank  rear  walls 
to  the  river,  or  form  lurid  bills  of  advertisement  for 
somebody's  pork  and  beans;  huge  barns  of  ferry 
terminuses  overlap  with  their  galleries  the  narrow 
streets  beneath;  slim  towers  shoot  up,  giddy  and 
dazzling-white,  in  the  midst  of  grimy  tenements  and 
a  hideous  black  network  of  elevated  railways;  the 
domes  of  churches  and  of  pickle  factories,  the  tur- 
rets of  prisons  and  of  terra  cotta  hotels,  the  electric 
signs  of  theatres  and  of  cemetery  companies,  are 
mingled  indiscriminately  in  a  vast,  hurled-together 
heap.  While  everywhere  great  piles  of  stone  and 
steel  are  dizzily  jutting  skyward,  ragged  and  un- 
finished. 

It  is  plain  to  be  seen  that  here  life  is  in  prepara- 
tion— a  piece  in  rehearsal;  with  the  scene-shifters  a 
bit  scarce,  or  untutored  in  their  business.  One  has 
the  uncomfortable  sensation  of  having  been  in  too 
great  haste  to  call;  and  so  caught  the  haughty  city 
on  her  moving-in  day.  This  breeds  humility  in  the 
visitor,  and  indulgence  for  the  poor  lady  who  is  doing 
her  best  to  set  her  house  to  rights.  It  is  a  splendid 
house,  and  a  distinctly  clever  lady;  and  certainly  in 
time  they  will  adjust  themselves  to  one  another  and 
to  the  world  outside.  For  the  present  they  loftily 
enjoy  a  gorgeous  chaos. 

Into  this  the  stranger  is  landed  summarily,  and 
with  no  pause  of  railway  journey  before  he  attacks 
the  city.  London,  Paris,  Madrid,  may  discreetly 
withdraw  a  hundred  miles  or  more  further  from  the 


6  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

impatient  foreigner:  New  York  confronts  him 
brusquely  on  the  pier.  And  from  his  peaceful  cabin 
he  is  plunged  into  a  vortex  of  hysterical  reunions, 
rushing  porters,  lordly  customs  officials,  newspaper 
men,  express-agents,  bootblacks  and  boys  shouting 
"Tel-egraml"  He  has  been  on  the  dock  only  five 
minutes,  when  he  realizes  that  the  dock  itself  is 
unequivocally,  uncompromisingly  New  York. 

Being  New  York,  it  has  at  once  all  the  con- 
veniences and  all  the  annoyances  known  to  man,  there 
at  his  elbow.  One  can  talk  by  long  distance  telephone 
from  the  pier  to  any  part  of  the  United  States;  or 
one  can  telegraph  a  "day  letter"  or  a  "night  letter" 
and  be  sure  of  its  delivery  in  any  section  of  the  three- 
thousand  mile  continent  by  eight  o'clock  next  morn- 
ing. One  can  check  one's  trunks,  when  they  have 
passed  the  customs,  direct  to  one's  residence — whether 
it  be  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York,  or  Nob  Hill,  San 
Francisco ;  time,  distance,  the  clumsiness  of  inanimate 
things,  are  dissipated  before  the  eyes  of  the  dazzled 
stranger. 

On  the  other  hand,  before  even  he  has  set  foot  on 
American  soil,  he  becomes  acquainted  with  American 
arrogance,  American  indifference,  the  fantasy  of 
American  democracy.  The  national  attitude  of  I- 
am-as-good-as-you-are  has  been  conveyed  to  him 
through  the  surly  answers  of  the  porter,  the  cheerful 
familiarity  of  the  customs  examiner,  the  grinning 
impudence  of  the  express-man.  These  excellent  pub- 
lic servants  would  have  the  foreigner  know  once  and 
for  all  that  he  is  in  a  land  where  all  men  are  indis- 


IN    REHEARSAL  7 

putably  proven  free  and  equal,  every  minute.  The 
extremely  interesting  fact  that  all  men  are  most 
unequal — slaves  to  their  own  potentialities — has  still 
to  occur  to  the  American.  He  is  in  the  stage  of 
doing,  not  yet  of  thinking;  therefore  he  finds  dis- 
grace in  saying  "sir"  to  another  man,  but  none  in 
showing  him  rudeness. 

In  a  civilization  like  that  of  America,  where  the 
office-boy  of  today  is  the  millionaire  of  tomorrow, 
and  the  millionaire  of  today  tomorrow  will  be  beg- 
ging a  job,  there  cannot  exist  the  hard  and  fast  lines 
which  in  older  worlds  definitely  fix  one  man  as  a 
gentleman,  another  as  his  servant.  Under  this  man- 
agement of  lightning  changes,  the  most  insignificant 
of  the  chorus  nurses  (and  with  reason)  the  belief 
that  he  may  be  jumped  overnight  into  the  leading 
role.  There  is  something  rather  fine  in  the  desperate 
self-confidence  of  every  American  in  the  ultimate 
rise  of  his  particular  star.  Out  of  it,  I  believe,  grows 
much  of  that  feverish  activity  which  the  visitor  to 
New  York  invariably  records  among  his  first  im- 
pressions. One  has  barely  arrived,  and  been  whirled 
from  the  dock  into  the  roar  and  rush  of  Twenty-third 
Street  and  Broadway,  when  he  begins  to  realize  the 
relentless  energy  of  the  place. 

The  very  wind  sweeps  along  the  tunnel-like 
streets,  through  the  rows  of  monster  buildings,  with 
a  speed  that  takes  the  breath.  In  the  fiercest  of  the 
gale,  at  the  intersection  of  the  two  great  thorough- 
fares of  Fifth  Avenue  and  Broadway,  rises  the  solid, 
serene  bulk  of  the  Flatiron  Building — like  a  majestic 


8  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

Winged  Victory  breasting  the  storm.  Over  to  the 
right,  in  Madison  Square,  MetropoHtan  Tower  rears 
its  disdainful  white  loftiness;  far  above  the  dusky 
gold  and  browns  of  old  Madison  Square  Garden; 
above  the  dwarfed  Manhattan  Club,  the  round  Byzan- 
tine dome  of  the  Madison  Square  Presbyterian 
Church.  But  the  Flatiron  itself  has  the  proudest  site 
in  New  York;  facing,  to  the  north,  on  one  side  the 
tangle  and  turmoil  of  Broadway — its  unceasing 
whirr  of  business,  business,  business ;  on  the  other  side, 
the  broad  elegance  and  dignity  of  Fifth  Avenue,  with 
its  impressive  cavalcade  of  mounted  police.  While 
East  and  West,  before  this  giant  building,  rush  the 
trams  and  traffic  of  Twenty-third  Street;  and  to  the 
South  lie  the  arches  of  aristocratic  old  Washington 
Square. 

It  is  as  though  at  this  converging  point  one 
gathers  together  all  the  outstanding  threads  in  the 
fabric  of  the  city,  to  visualize  its  central  pattern. 
And  the  outstanding  types  of  the  city  here  are 
gathered  also.  One  sees  the  ubiquitous  "business- 
man," in  his  careful  square-shouldered  clothes,  hurry- 
ing from  bus  to  tram,  or  tearing  down-town  in  a  taxi ; 
the  almost  ubiquitous  business-woman,  trig  and 
quietly  self-confident,  on  her  brisk  up-town  walk  to 
the  office;  and  the  out-of-town  woman  "shopper," 
with  her  enormous  hand-bag,  and  the  anxious-eyed 
Hebrew  "importer"  (whose  sign  reads  Maison 
Marcel)  f  and  his  stunted  little  errand-girl  darting 
through  the  maze  of  traffic  like  a  fish  through  well- 
known  waters;  the  idle  young  man-about-town,  im- 


IN    REHEARSAL  9 

mortalized  in  the  sock  and  collar  advertisements  of 
every  surface  car  and  Subway;  and  the  equally  idle 
young  girl,  in  her  elaborate  sameness  the  prototype  of 
the  same  cover  of  the  best  magazines :  even  in  one  day, 
there  comes  to  be  a  strange  familiarity  about  all  these 
people. 

They  are  peculiar  to  their  own  special  class,  but 
within  that  class  they  are  as  like  as  peas  in  a  pod. 
They  have  the  same  features,  wear  the  same  clothes 
even  to  a  certain  shade,  and  do  the  same  things  in 
identically  the  same  day.  With  all  about  them  shift- 
ing, progressing,  alternating  from  hour  to  hour.  New 
Yorkers,  in  themselves,  remain  unaltered.  Or,  if 
they  change,  they  change  together  as  one  creature — 
be  he  millionaire  or  Hebrew  shop-keeper,  doctor  of 
divinity  or  manager  of  comic  opera.  For,  of  all  men 
under  the  sun,  the  New  Yorker  is  a  type;  acutely 
suspicious  of  and  instinctively  opposed  to  anything 
independent  of  the  type.  Hence,  in  spite  of  the  vast 
numbers  of  different  peoples  brought  together  on 
Manhattan  Island,  we  find  not  a  community  of 
Americans  growing  cosmopolitan,  but  a  community 
of  cosmopolitans  forced  to  grow  New  Yorkers.  This, 
under  the  potent  influence  of  extreme  American 
adaptability,  they  do  in  a  remarkably  short  time;  the 
human  potpourri  who  five  years  ago  had  never  seen 
Manhattan,  today  being  indistinguishable  in  the  rep- 
resentative city  mass. 

Walk  out  Fifth  Avenue  at  the  hour  of  afternoon 
parade,  or  along  Broadway  on  a  matinee  day:  the 
habitues  of  the  two  promenades  differ  only  in  degree. 


10  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

Broadway  is  blatant.  Fifth  Avenue  is  desperately- 
toned-down.  On  Broadway,  voices  and  millinery 
are  a  few  shades  more  strident,  self-assertion  a  few 
shades  more  arrogant  than  on  the  less  ingenuous  Ave- 
nue. Otherwise,  what  do  you  find?  The  same  over- 
animated  women,  the  same  over-languid  young  girls ; 
wearing  the  same  velvets  and  furs  and  huge  corsage 
bouquets,  and — unhappily — the  same  pearl  powder 
and  rouge,  whether  they  be  sixteen  or  sixty,  married 
or  demoiselle.  Ten  years  ago  New  York  could  boast 
the  loveliest,  naturally  beautiful  galaxy  of  young 
girls  in  the  world;  today,  since  the  onslaught  of 
French  fashion  and  artificiality,  this  is  no  longer  true. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  pitiable  to  see  the  hard  painted 
lines  and  fixed  smile  of  the  women  of  the  world  in 
the  faces  of  these  girls  of  seventeen  and  eighteen  who 
walk  up  and  down  the  Avenue  day  after  day  to  stare 
and  be  stared  at  with  almost  the  boldness  of  a  boule- 
vard trotteuse. 

Foreigners  who  watch  them  from  club  windows 
write  enthusiastic  eulogies  in  their  praise.  To  me 
they  seem  a  terrible  travesty  on  all  that  youth  is 
meant  to  be.  They  take  their  models  from  pictures 
of  French  demi-mondaines  shown  in  ultra-daring 
race  costumes,  in  the  Sunday  newspapers ;  and  whom 
they  fondly  believe  to  be  great  ladies  of  society.  I 
had  almost  said  that  from  head  to  foot  they  are 
victims  of  an  entirely  false  conception  of  beauty  and 
grace;  but  when  it  comes  to  their  feet,  they  are 
genuine  American,  and,  so,  frank  and  attractive. 
Indeed  there  is  no  woman  as  daintily  and  appro- 


IN    REHEARSAL  11 

priately  shod  as  the  American  woman,  whose  trim 
short  skirts  betray  this  pleasant  fact  with  every  step 
she  takes. 

Nowhere,  however,  is  appearance  and  its  detail 
more  misrepresentative  than  in  New  York.  Strangers 
exclaim  at  the  opulence  of  the  frocks  and  furs  dis- 
played by  even  the  average  woman.  They  have  no 
idea  that  the  average  woman  lives  in  a  two-by-four 
hall  bedroom — or  at  best  a  three-room  flat ;  and  that 
she  has  saved  and  scrimped,  or  more  probably  gone 
into  debt  to  acquire  that  one  indispensable  good  cos- 
tume. Nor  could  they  imagine  that  her  chief  joy  in 
a  round  of  sordid  days  is  parade  in  it  as  one  of  the 
luxurious  throng  that  crowd  Fifth  Avenue  and  its 
adjacent  tea-rooms  from  four  till  six  every  after- 
noon. 

Not  only  the  women  of  Manhattan  itself  revel 
in  this  daily  scene;  but  their  neighbors  from  Brook- 
lyn, Staten  Island,  Jersey  City  and  Newark  pour  in 
by  the  hundreds,  from  the  underground  tubes  and  the 
ferries  that  connect  these  places  with  New  York. 
The  whole  raison  d'etre  of  countless  women  and  girls 
who  live  within  an  hour's  distance  of  the  city  is  this 
every-day  excursion  to  their  Mecca :  the  leisurely  stroll 
up  Fifth  Avenue  from  Twenty-third  Street,  down 
from  Fifty-ninth ;  the  cup  of  tea  at  one  of  the  rococo 
hotels  along  the  way.  It  is  a  routine  of  which  they 
never  seem  to  tire — a  monotony  always  new  to  them. 
And  the  pathetic  part  of  it  is  that  while  they  all — the 
indigent  "roomers,"  the  anxious  suburbanites,  and 
the  floating  fraction  of  tourists  from  the  West  and 


1«  THE    MECCAS    OF   THE    WORLD 

South — fondly  imagine  they  are  beholding  the  Four 
Hundred  of  New  York  society,  they  are  simply  star- 
ing at  each  other! 

And  accepting  each  other  naively  at  their  clothes 
value.  The  woman  of  the  hall  bedroom  receives  the 
same  appreciative  glance  as  the  woman  with  a  bank 
account  of  five  figures;  provided  that  outwardly  she 
has  achieved  the  same  result.  The  prime  mania  of 
New  York  is  results — or  what  appear  to  be  results. 
Every  sky-scraper  in  itself  is  an  exclamation-point  of 
accomplishment.  And  the  matter  is  not  how  one 
accomplishes,  but  how  much;  so  that  the  more  slug- 
gish European  can  feel  the  minutes  being  snatched 
and  squeezed  by  these  determined  people  round  him 
and  made  to  yield  their  very  utmost  before  being  al- 
lowed to  pass  into  telling  hours  and  days. 

With  this  goes  an  air  of  almost  offensive  com- 
petency— an  air  that  is  part  of  the  garments  of  the 
true  New  Yorker;  as  though  he  and  he  alone  can 
compass  the  affair  towards  which  he  Is  forever  hurry- 
ing. There  is  about  him,  always,  the  piquant  insinu- 
ation that  he  is  keeping  someone  waiting ;  that  he  can. 
I  have  been  guilty  of  suspecting  that  this  attitude, 
together  with  his  painstakingly  correct  clothes,  con- 
stitute the  chief  elements  in  the  New  Yorker's  game 
of  "bluff."  Let  him  wear  what  the  ready-made  tailor 
describes  as  "snappy"  clothes,  and  he  is  at  once 
respected  as  successful.  A  man  may  be  living  on  one 
meal  a  day,  but  if  he  can  contrive  a  prosperous 
appearance,  together  with  the  preoccupied  air  of 
having  more  business  than  he  can  attend  to,  he  is  in 


IN    REHEARSAL  13 

the  way  of  being  begged  to  accept  a  position,  at  any 
moment. 

No  one  is  so  ready  to  be  "bluffed"  as  the  Ameri- 
can who  spends  his  life  "bluffing."  In  him  are  united 
the  extremes  of  ingenuousness  and  shrewdness;  so 
that  often  through  pretending  to  be  something  he  is 
not,  he  does  actually  come  to  be  it.  A  Frenchman  or 
a  German  or  an  Englishman  is  born  a  barber;  he 
remains  a  barber  and  dies  a  barber,  hke  his  father 
and  grandfather  before  him.  His  one  idea  is  to  be 
the  best  barber  he  can  be ;  to  excell  every  other  barber 
in  his  street.  The  American  scorns  such  lack  of 
"push."  If  his  father  is  a  barber,  he  himself  learns 
barbering  only  just  well  enough  to  make  a  living 
while  he  looks  for  a  "bigger  job."  His  mind  is  not 
on  pleasing  his  clients,  but  on  himself — five,  ten, 
twenty  years  hence. 

He  sees  himself  a  confidential  clerk,  then  man- 
ager's assistant,  then  manager  of  an  independent 
business — soap,  perhaps;  he  sees  himself  taken  into 
partnership,  his  wife  giving  dinners,  his  children  sent 
to  college.  And  so  vivid  are  these  possibilities  to  him, 
reading  and  hearing  of  like  histories  every  day  in 
the  newspapers  and  on  the  street,  that  unconsciously 
he  begins  to  affect  the  manners  and  habits  of  the 
class  he  intends  to  make  his  own.  In  an  astonishingly 
short  time  they  are  his  own ;  which  means  that  he  has 
taken  the  main  step  towards  the  realization  of  his 
dream.  It  is  the  outward  and  visible  signs  of  belong- 
ing which  eventually  bring  about  that  one  does  be- 
long; and  no  one  is  quicker  to  grasp  this  than  the 


14)  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

obscure  American.  He  has  the  instincts  of  the  born 
climber.  He  never  stops  imitating  until  he  dies; 
and  by  that  time  his  son  is  probably  governor  of  the 
State,  and  his  daughter  married  to  a  title.  What  a 
people!  As  a  Frenchman  has  put  it,  "il  ny  a  que  des 
phenomenes!" 

One  cannot  conclude  an  introductory  sketch  of 
some  of  their  phenomena  without  a  glance  at  their 
amazing  architecture.  The  first  complacent  question 
of  the  newspaper  interviewer  to  every  foreigner  is: 
"What  do  you  think  of  our  sky-scrapers?"  And 
one  is  certainly  compelled  to  do  a  prodigious  deal  of 
thinking  about  them,  whether  he  will  or  no.  For  they 
are  being  torn  down  and  hammered  up  higher,  all 
over  New  York,  till  conversation  to  be  carried  on  in 
the  street  must  needs  become  a  dialogue  in  monosyl- 
labic shouts;  while  walking,  in  conjunction  with  the 
upheavals  of  new  Subway  tunnelling,  has  all  the 
excitements  of  traversing  an  earthquake  district. 

This  perpetual  transition  finds  its  motive  in  the 
enormous  business  concentrated  on  the  small  island 
of  Manhattan,  and  the  constant  increase  in  office 
space  demanded  thereby.  The  commerce  of  the  city 
persistently  moves  north,  and  the  residents  flee  before 
it;  leaving  their  fine  old  Knickerbocker  homes  to  be 
converted  into  great  department  stores,  publishing 
houses,  but  above  all  into  the  omnivorous  office- 
building.  The  mass  of  these  are  hideous — dizzy, 
squeezed-together  abortions  of  brick  and  steel — but 
here  and  there  among  the  horrors  are  to  be  found 
examples  of  true  if  fantastic  beauty.    The  Flatiron 


T'licIcriroodA-  Underwood 
A    PATCH    OF   THK    CllAZY-QUlLT    BROADWAY,    FKOM    -42d    STREET 


IN    REHEARSAL  15 

Building  is  one,  the  Woolworth  Building  (especially 
in  its  marvellous  illumination  by  night)  another,  the 
new  colonnaded  offices  of  the  Grand  Central  Station 
a  third.  Yet  the  general  impression  of  New  York 
architecture  upon  the  average  foreigner  is  of  illimit- 
able confusion  and  ugliness. 

It  is  because  the  American  in  art  is  a  Futurist. 
He  so  far  scorns  the  ideal  as  to  have  done  with  imag- 
ination altogether;  substituting  for  it  an  invention  so 
titanic  in  audacity  that  to  the  untrained  it  appears 
grotesque.  In  place  of  the  ideal  he  has  set  up  the 
one  thing  greater :  truth.  And  as  truth  to  every  man 
is  different  (only  standard  being  relatively  fixed) 
how  can  he  hope  for  concurrence  in  his  masterpiece? 
The  sky-scraper  is  more  than  a  masterpiece:  it  is  a 
fact.  A  fact  of  violence,  of  grim  struggle,  and  of 
victory ;  over  the  earth  that  is  too  small,  and  the  winds 
that  rage  in  impotence,  and  the  heavens  that  hereto- 
fore have  been  useless.  It  is  the  accomplished  fact 
of  man's  dauntless  determination  to  wrest  from  the 
elements  that  which  he  sees  he  needs;  and  as  such  it 
has  a  beauty  too  terrible  to  be  described. 


II 

CONVENIENCE    VS,    CULTURE 

Here  are  the  two  prime  motives  waging  war  in 
the  American  drama  of  today.  Time  is  money; 
whether  for  the  American  it  is  to  mean  anything  more 
is  still  a  question.  Meanwhile  every  time-saving  con- 
venience that  can  be  invented  is  put  at  his  disposal, 
be  he  labouring  man  or  governor  of  a  state.  And, 
as  we  have  seen  in  the  case  of  the  skyscraper,  little  or 
no  heed  is  paid  to  the  form  of  finish  of  the  invention ; 
its  beauty  is  its  practicability  for  immediate  and  ex- 
haustive use. 

Take  that  most  useful  of  all,  for  example:  the 
hotel.  An  Englishman  goes  to  a  hotel  when  he  is 
obliged  to,  and  then  chooses  the  quietest  he  can  find. 
Generally  it  has  the  appearance  of  a  private  house,  all 
but  the  discreet  brass  plate  on  the  door.  He  rings  for 
a  servant  to  admit  him;  his  meals  are  served  in  his 
rooms,  and  weeks  go  by  without  his  seeing  another 
guest  in  the  house.  The  idea  is  to  make  the  hotel  in 
as  far  as  possible  duplicate  the  home. 

In  America  it  is  the  other  way  round;  the  New 
Yorker  in  particular  models  his  home  after  his  hotel, 
and  seizes  every  opportunity  to  close  his  own  house 

16 


IN    REHEARSAL  17 

and  live  for  weeks  at  a  time  in  one  of  the  huge  cara- 
vanseries  that  gobble  up  great  areas  of  the  city.  "It 
is  so  convenient,"  he  tells  you,  lounging  in  the  gaudy 
lobby  of  one  of  these  hideous  terra-cotta  structures. 
"No  servant  problem,  no  housekeeping  worries  for 
madame,  and  everything  we  want  within  reach  of 
the  telephone  bell!" 

Quite  true,  when  the  pompadoured  princess  below- 
stairs  condescends  to  answer  it.  Otherwise  you  may 
sit  in  impotent  rage,  ten  stories  up,  while  she  finishes 
a  twenty-minute  conversation  with  her  "friend"  or  ar- 
ranges to  go  to  a  "show"  with  the  head  barber;  for 
in  all  this  palace  of  marble  staircases  and  frescoed 
ceilings,  Louis  Quinze  suites  and  Russian  baths  there 
is  not  an  ordinary  bell  in  the  room  to  call  a  servant. 
Everything  must  be  ordered  by  telephone;  and  what 
boots  it  that  there  is  a  telegraph  office,  a  stock  ex- 
change bureau,  a  ladies'  outfitting  shop,  a  railroad 
agency,  a  notary,  a  pharmacist  and  an  osteopath  in 
the  building — if  to  control  these  conveniences  one 
must  wander  through  miles  of  corridors  and  be  shot 
up  and  down  a  dozen  lifts,  because  the  telephone  girl 
refuses  to  answer  ? 

From  personal  experience,  I  should  say  that  the 
servant  problem  is  quite  as  tormenting  in  hotels  as  in 
most  other  American  establishments.  The  conde- 
scension of  these  worthies,  when  they  deign  to  supply 
you  with  some  simple  want,  is  amazing.  Not  only  in 
hotels,  but  in  well-run  private  houses,  they  seize  every 
chance  for  conversation,  and  always  turn  to  the  sub- 
ject of  their  own  affairs — their  former  prosperity. 


18  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

the  mere  temporary  necessity  of  their  being  in  service, 
and  their  glowing  prospects  for  the  future.  They  in- 
sist on  giving  you  their  confidential  opinion  of  the 
establishment  in  which  you  are  a  guest,  and  which  is 
invariably  far  inferior  to  others  in  which  they  have 
been  employed.  They  comment  amiably  on  your  gar- 
ments, if  they  are  pleased  with  them,  or  are  quite  as 
ready  to  convey  that  they  are  not.  And  woe  to  him 
who  shows  resentment!  He  may  beseech  their  serv- 
ice henceforth  in  vain.  If,  however,  he  meekly  ac- 
cepts them  as  they  are,  they  will  graciously  be  pleased 
to  perform  for  him  the  duties  for  which  they  are  paid 
fabulous  wages. 

Hotel  servants  constitute  the  aristocracy  among 
"domestics,"  as  they  prefer  to  call  themselves;  just  as 
hotel  dwellers — of  the  more  luxurious  type — consti- 
tute a  kind  of  aristocracy  among  third-rate  society  in 
New  York.  These  people  lead  a  strange,  unreal  sort 
of  existence,  living  as  it  were  in  a  thickly  gilded, 
thickly  padded  vacuum,  whence  they  issue  periodi- 
cally into  the  hands  of  a  retinue  of  hangers-on :  man- 
icures, masseurs,  hair-dressers,  and  for  the  men  a  train 
of  speculators  and  sporting  parasites.  In  this  world, 
where  there  are  no  definite  duties  or  responsibilities, 
there  are  naturally  no  fixed  hours  for  anything. 
Meals  occur  when  the  caprice  of  the  individual  de- 
mands them — breakfast  at  one,  or  at  three,  if  he  likes ; 
dinner  at  the  supper  hour,  or,  instead  of  tea,  a  restau- 
rant is  always  at  his  elbow.  With  the  same  irrespon- 
sibility, engagements  are  broken  or  kept  an  hour  late ; 
agreements  are  forfeited  or  forgotten  altogether; 


IN    REHEARSAL  19 

order  of  any  sort  is  unknown,  and  the  only  activity  of 
this  large  class  of  wealthy  people  is  a  hectic,  unregu- 
lated striving  after  pleasure. 

Women  especially  grow  into  hotel  fungi  of  this 
description,  sitting  about  the  hot,  over-decorated  lob- 
bies and  in  the  huge,  crowded  restaurants,  with  noth- 
ing to  do  but  stare  and  be  stared  at.  They  are  a  curi- 
ous by-product  of  the  energetic,  capable  American 
woman  in  general ;  and  one  thinks  there  might  be  sal- 
vation for  them  in  the  "housekeeping"  worries  they 
disdainfully  repudiate.  Still,  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
with  the  serious  problem  of  servants  and  the  exorbitant 
prices  of  household  commodities  a  home  is  far  more 
difficult  to  maintain  in  America  than  in  the  average 
modern  country.  Hospitality  under  the  present  con- 
ditions presents  features  slightly  careworn;  and  the 
New  York  hostess  is  apt  to  be  more  anxious  than 
charming,  and  to  end  her  career  on  the  dismal  veran- 
das of  a  sanatorium  for  nervous  diseases. 

But  society  the  world  round  has  very  much  the 
same  character.  For  types  peculiar  to  a  country, 
one  must  descend  the  ladder  to  rungs  nearer  the  na- 
tive soil ;  in  New  York  there  are  the  John  Browns  of 
Harlem,  for  example.  No  one  outside  America  has 
heard  of  Harlem.  Does  the  loyal  Englishman  abroad 
speak  of  Hammersmith?  Does  the  Frenchman  en 
voyage  descant  on  the  beauties  of  the  BatignoUes? 
These  abominations  are  locked  within  the  national 
bosom ;  only  Hyde  Park  and  the  Champs  Elysees  and 
Fifth  Avenue  are  allowed  out  for  alien  gaze.  Yet 
quite  as  emphatic  of  New  York  struggle  and  achieve- 


go  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

merit  as  the  few  score  millionaire  palaces  along  the 
avenue  are  the  tens  of  thousands  of  cramped  Harlem 
fiats  that  overspread  the  northern  end  of  the  island 
from  One  Hundred  and  Twenty-fifth  Street  to  the 
Bronx.  For  tens  of  thousands  of  John  Browns 
have  daily  to  wage  war  in  the  deadly  field  of  Amer- 
ican commercial  competition,  in  order  to  pay  the  rent 
and  the  gas  bill,  and  the  monthly  installment  on  the 
furniture  of  these  miniature  homes.  They  have  not, 
however,  to  pay  for  the  electric  light,  or  the  hot- water 
heating,  or  a  dozen  other  comforts  which  are  a  recur- 
ring source  of  amazement  to  the  foreigner  in  such  a 
place.  For  twenty  dollars  a  month,  John  Brown  and 
his  wife  are  furnished  not  only  with  three  rooms  and 
a  luxurious  porcelain  bath  in  a  white-tiled  bathroom; 
but  also  the  use  of  two  lifts,  the  inexhaustible  services 
of  the  janitor,  a  comfortable  roof  garden  in  summer, 
and  an  imposing  entrance  hall  downstairs,  done  in 
imitation  Carrara  marble  and  imitation  Cordova 
leather.  With  this  goes  a  still  more  imposing  address, 
and  Mrs.  John  can  rouse  the  eternal  envy  of  the 
weary  Sixth  Avenue  shop-girl  by  ordering  her  lemon- 
squeezer  or  two  yards  of  linoleum  sent  to  "Marie  An- 
toinette Court,"  or  "The  Cornwalhs  Arms."  The 
shop-girl  understands  that  Mrs.  John's  husband  is  a 
success. 

That  is,  that  he  earns  in  the  neighborhood  of  a 
hundred  dollars  a  month.  With  this  he  can  afford 
to  pay  the  household  expenses,  to  dress  himself  and 
his  wife  a  bit  better  than  their  position  demands,  to 
subscribe  to  two  or  three  of  the  ten-cent  magazines. 


IN    REHEARSAL  21 

and  to  do  a  play  on  Broadway  now  and  then.  Mrs. 
John  of  course  is  a  matinee  fiend,  and  has  the  candy 
habit.  These  excesses  must  be  provided  for;  also 
John's  five-cent  cigars  and  his  occasional  mild  "spree 
with  the  boys."  For  the  rest,  they  are  a  prudent 
couple;  methodically  religious,  inordinately  moral; 
banking  a  few  dollars  every  month  against  the  menac- 
ing rainy-day,  and,  if  this  has  not  arrived  by  vacation 
time  in  August,  promptly  spending  the  money  on  the 
lurid  delights  of  Atlantic  City  or  some  other  ocean 
resort.  Thence  they  return  haggard  but  triumphant, 
with  a  coat  of  tan  laboriously  acquired  by  wetting 
faces  and  arms,  and  then  sitting  for  hours  in  the  broil- 
ing sun — to  impress  the  Tom  Smiths  in  the  flat  next 
door  that  they  have  had  a  "perfectly  grand  time." 

A  naive,  hard-working,  kindly  couple,  severely 
conventional  in  their  prejudices,  impressionable  as 
children  in  their  afl*ections,  and  with  a  certain  persist- 
ent cleverness  that  shoots  beyond  the  limitations  of 
their  type,  and  hints  to  them  of  the  habits  and  manners 
of  a  finer.  In  them  the  passionate  motive  of  self-de- 
velopment that  dominates  all  American  life  has  so  far 
found  an  outlet  only  in  demand  for  the  conveniences 
and  material  comforts  of  the  further  advanced  whom 
they  imitate.  When  in  the  natural  course  of  things 
they  turn  their  eyes  towards  the  culture  of  the  JNIan 
Higher  Up,  they  will  obtain  that,  too.  And  mean- 
while does  not  Mrs.  Brown  have  her  Tennyson  Club, 
and  John  his  uniform  edition  of  Shakespeare? 

Some  New  Yorkers  who  shudder  at  Harlem  are 
not  as  lucky.    I  was  once  the  guest  of  a  lady  who  had 


28  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

just  moved  into  her  sumptuous  new  home  on  River- 
side Drive.  My  rooms,  to  quote  the  first-class  hotel 
circular,  were  replete  with  every  luxury ;  I  could  turn 
on  the  light  from  seven  different  places ;  I  could  make 
the  chairs  into  couches  or  the  couches  into  chairs;  I 
could  talk  by  one  of  the  marvellous  ebony  and  silver 
telephones  to  the  valet  or  the  cook,  or  if  I  pleased  to 
Chicago.  There  was  nothing  mortal  man  could  in- 
vent that  had  not  been  put  in  those  rooms,  including 
six  varieties  of  reading-lamps,  and  a  bed-reading- 
table  that  shot  out  and  arranged  itself  obligingly 
when  one  pushed  a  button. 

But  there  was  nothing  to  read.  Apologetically,  I 
sought  my  hostess.  Would  she  allow  me  to  pilfer  the 
library  ?  For  a  moment  the  lady  looked  blank.  Then, 
with  a  smile  of  relief,  she  said:  "Of  course!  You 
want  some  magazines.  How  stupid  of  the  servants. 
I'll  have  them  sent  to  you  at  once;  but  you  know  we 
have  no  library.  I  think  books  are  so  ugly,  don't 
you?" 

I  am  not  hopelessly  addicted  to  veracity,  but  I  will 
set  my  hand  and  seal  to  this  story;  also  to  the  fact 
that  in  all  that  palace  of  the  superfluous  there  was  not 
to  my  knowledge  one  book  of  any  sort.  Even  the 
favourite  whipped-cream  novel  of  society  was  want- 
ing; but  magazines  of  every  kind  and  description  lit- 
tered the  place.  The  reason  for  this  apparently  in- 
explicable state  of  affairs  is  simple;  time  is  money; 
therefore  not  to  be  expended  without  calculation.  In 
the  magazine  the  rushed  business  man,  and  the  equally 
rushed  business   or   society  woman,   has   a   literary 


IN    REHEARSAL  «3 

quick-lunch  that  can  be  swallowed  in  convenient  bites 
at  odd  moments  during  the  day. 

Is  the  business  man  dining  out?  He  looks  at  the 
reviews  of  books  he  has  not  read  on  the  way  to  his 
office  in  the  morning;  criticisms  of  plays  he  has  not 
seen,  on  the  way  back  at  night.  Half  an  hour  of 
magazine  is  made  thus  to  yield  some  eight  hours  of 
theatre  and  twenty-four  of  reading  books — and  his 
vis-a-vis  at  dinner  records  at  next  day's  tea  party, 
"what  a  well-informed  man  that  INIr.  Worriton  is  I 
He  seems  to  find  time  for  everything." 

Is  the  society  woman  "looking  in"  at  an  important 
reception?  Between  a  fitting  at  her  dressmaker's, 
luncheon,  bridge  and  two  teas,  she  catches  up  the  last 
Review  from  the  pocket  of  her  limousine,  and  runs 
over  the  political  notes,  war  news,  foreign  events  of 
the  week.  Result:  "that  Mrs.  Newrich  is  really  a 
remarkable  woman!"  declares  the  distinguished  guest 
of  the  reception  to  his  hostess.  "Such  a  breadth  of 
interest,  such  an  intelligent  outlook!  It  is  genuine 
pleasure  to  meet  a  woman  who  shows  some  acquaint- 
ance with  the  affairs  of  the  day." 

And  so  again  they  hoodwink  one  another,  each 
practicing  the  same  deceptive  game  of  superficial 
show;  yet  none  suspecting  any  of  the  rest.  And  the 
magazine  syndicates  flourish  and  multiply.  In  this 
piece  that  is  in  preparation,  the  actors  are  too  busy 
proving  themselves  capable  of  their  parts  really  to 
take  time  to  become  so.  To  succeed  with  them,  you 
must  offer  your  dose  in  tabloids :  highly  concentrated 
essence  of  whatever  it  is,  and  always  sugar-coated. 


M  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

Then  they  will  swallow  it  promptly,  and  demand 
more.  Remember,  too,  that  what  they  want  in  the 
way  of  "culture"  is  not  drama,  or  literature,  or  mu- 
sic; but  excitement — of  admiration,  pity,  the  erotic 
or  the  sternly  moral  sense.  Their  nerves  must  be  kept 
at  a  certain  perpetual  tension.  He  who  overlooks  this 
supreme  fact,  in  creating  for  them,  fails. 

There  are  in  America  today  some  thousands  of 
men  and  women  who  have  taken  the  one  step  further 
than  their  fellows  in  that  they  realize  this,  and  so  are 
able  shrewdly  to  pander  to  the  national  appetites. 
The  result  is  a  continuous  outpouring  of  novels  and 
short  stories,  plays  and  hybrid  songs,  such  as  in  a  less 
vast  and  less  extravagant  country  would  ruin  one  an- 
other by  their  very  multitude ;  but  which  in  the  United 
States  meet  with  an  appalling  success.  Appalling,  be- 
cause it  is  not  a  primitive,  but  a  too  exotic,  fancy  that 
delights  in  them.  For  his  mind  as  for  his  body,  the 
American  demands  an  overheated  dwelling ;  when  not 
plunged  within  the  hectic  details  of  a  "best-seller," 
by  way  of  recreation,  he  is  apt  to  be  immersed  in  the 
florid  joys  of  a  Broadway  extravaganza. 

These  unique  American  productions,  made  up  of 
large  beauty  choruses,  magnificent  scenery,  gorgeous 
costumes,  elaborate  fantasies  of  ballet  and  song,  bear 
the  same  relation  to  actual  drama  that  the  best-sellers 
bear  to  literature,  and  are  as  popular.  The  Hippo- 
drome, with  its  huge  stage  accommodating  four  hun- 
dred people,  and  its  enormous  central  tank  for  water 
spectacles,  is  easily  first  among  the  extravaganza 
houses  of  New  York.    Twice  a  day  an  eager  audi- 


IN    REHEARSAL  25 

ence,  drawn  from  all  classes  of  metropolitan  and 
transient  society,  crowds  the  great  amphitheatre  to 
the  doors.  The  performance  prepared  for  them  is 
on  the  order  of  a  French  revue :  a  combination  circus 
and  vaudeville,  held  together  by  a  thin  thread  of  plot 
that  permits  the  white-flannelled  youth  and  be- 
jewelled maiden,  who  have  faithfully  exclaimed  over 
each  new  sensation  of  the  piece,  finally  to  embrace  one 
another,  with  the  novel  cry  of  "at  last!" 

Meanwhile  kangaroos  engage  in  a  boxing  match, 
hippoj)otami  splash  most  of  the  reservoir  over  the 
"South  Sea  Girls";  the  Monte  Carlo  Casino  pre- 
sents its  hoary  tables  as  background  for  the  "Dance 
of  the  Jeunesse  Doree,"  and  Maoris  from  New 
Zealand  give  an  imitation  of  an  army  of  tarantulas 
writhing  from  one  side  of  the  stage  to  another.  The 
climax  is  a  stupendous  tableau  en  pyramide  of  foun- 
tains, marble  staircases,  gilded  thrones,  and  opales- 
cent canopies ;  built  up,  banked,  and  held  together  by 
girls  of  every  costume  and  complexion.  Nothing 
succeeds  in  New  York  without  girls;  the  more  there 
are,  the  more  triumphant  the  success.  So  the  Hip- 
podrome, being  in  every  way  triumphant,  has  moun- 
tains of  them:  tall  girls  and  little  girls,  Spanish  girls, 
Japanese  girls,  Hindoo  girls  and  French  girls;  and 
at  the  very  top  of  the  peak,  where  the  "spot"  points 
its  dazzling  ray,  the  American  girl,  wrapped  in  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  of  her  apotheosis.  Ecco!  The  last 
word  has  been  said;  applause  thunders  to  the  rafters; 
the  flag  is  unfurled,  to  show  the  maiden  in  the  victori- 
ous garb  of  a  Captain  of  the  Volunteers ;  and  the  cur- 


26  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

tain  falls  amid  the  lusty  strains  of  the  national  an- 
them. Everybody  goes  home  happy,  and  the  box 
office  nets  five  thousand  dollars.  They  know  the  value 
of  patriotism,  these  good  Hebrews. 

This  sentiment,  always  near  the  surface  with 
Americans,  grows  deeper  and  more  fervid  as  it  lo- 
calizes ;  leading  to  a  curiously  intense  snobbism  on  the 
part  of  one  section  of  the  country  towards  another. 
Thus  New  York  society  sniffs  at  Westerners;  let 
them  approach  the  citadel  ever  so  heavily  armed  with 
gold  mines,  they  have  a  long  siege  before  it  surrenders 
to  them.  On  the  other  hand,  the  same  society  smiles 
eagerly  upon  Southerners  of  no  pocket-books  at  all; 
and  feeds  and  fetes  and  fawns  upon  them,  because 
they  are  doomed,  the  minute  their  Southern  accent  is 
heard,  to  come  of  "a  good  old  family."  The  idea  of 
a  decayed  aristocracy  in  two-hundred-year-old  Amer- 
ica is  not  without  comedy,  but  in  the  States  Southern- 
ers are  taken  very  solemnly,  by  themselves  as  by 
everyone  else. 

My  friend  of  the  aesthetic  antipathy  to  books 
(really  a  delightful  person)  is  a  Southerner — or  was, 
before  gathered  into  the  fold  of  the  New  York  Four 
Hundred.  She  apologized  for  taking  me  to  the 
Horse  Show  (which  she  thought  might  amuse  me, 
however),  because  "no  one  goes  any  more.  It's  all 
Middle  West  and  commuters."  For  the  benefit  of 
those  imperfect  in  social  geography  I  must  explain 
that  Middle  West  is  the  one  thing  worse  than  West, 
and  that  commuters  are  those  unfortunates  without 
the  sacred  pale,  who  are  forced  to  journey  to  and 


IN    REHEARSAL  27 

from  Manhattan  by  ferries  or  underground  tubes. 
They  are  the  butt  of  comic  newspaper  supplements, 
topical  songs,  and  society  witticisms ;  also  the  despised 
and  over-charged  "out-of-town  customers"  of  the 
haughty  Fifth  Avenue  importer. 

For  the  latter  (a  phenomenon  unique  to  New 
York)  has  her  own  system  of  snobbism,  quite  as  elab- 
orate as  that  of  her  proudest  client.  They  are  really 
a  remarkable  mixture  of  superciliousness  and  abject 
servility,  these  Irish  and  Hebrew  "JVIadame  Celestes," 
whose  thriving  establishments  form  so  conspicuous  a 
part  of  the  important  avenue.  As  exponents  of  the 
vagaries  of  American  democracy,  they  deserve  a  para- 
graph to  themselves. 

Each  has  her  rococo  shop,  and  her  retinue  of  man- 
nequin assistants  garbed  in  the  extreme  of  fashion; 
each  makes  her  yearly  or  bi-yearly  trip  to  Paris,  from 
which  she  returns  with  strange  and  bizarre  creations, 
which  she  assures  her  patrons  are  the  "only  thing" 
being  worn  by  Parisiennes  this  season.  Now  even  the 
untutored  male  knows  that  there  is  never  an  "only 
thing"  favoured  by  the  capricious  and  original  Pari- 
sienne;  but  that  she  changes  with  every  wind,  and  in 
all  seasons  wears  everything  under  the  sun  ( including 
ankle-bracelets  and  Cubist  hats),  provided  it  has  the 
one  hall-mark:  chic. 

But  INIadame  New  York  meekly  accepts  the  Irish 
lady's  dictum,  and  arrays  herself  accordingly — with 
what  result  of  extravagant  monotony  we  shall  see 
later  on.  Enough  for  the  present  that  she  is  abso- 
lutely submissive  to  the  vulgar  taste  and  iron  decrees 


28  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

of  the  rubicund  "Celeste"  from  Cork,  and  that  the 
latter  alternately  condescends  and  grovels  to  her,  in 
a  manner  amazing  to  the  foreigner,  who  may  be  look- 
ing on.  Yet  on  second  thoughts  it  is  quite  explicable : 
after  the  habit  of  all  Americans,  native  or  natura- 
lized, "Celeste"  cannot  conceal  that  she  considers  her- 
self "as  good  as"  anyone,  if  not  a  shade  better  than 
some.  At  the  same  time,  again  truly  American,  she 
worships  the  dollars  madame  represents  (and  whose 
aggregate  she  can  quote  to  a  decimal),  and  respects 
the  lady  in  proportion.  Hence  her  bewildering  com- 
binations of  "certainly,  Madame — it  shall  be  exactly 
as  Madame  orders,"  with  "Oh,  my  dear,  I  wouldn't 
have  that!  Why,  girlie,  that  on  you  with  your  dark 
skin  would  look  like  sky-blue  on  an  Indian!  But, 
see,  dear,  here's  a  pretty  pink  model" — etc.,  etc. 

And  so  it  continues,  unctuous  deference  sand- 
wiched between  endearments  and  snubs  throughout 
the  entire  conference  of  shopkeeper  and  customer;  and 
the  latter  takes  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course,  though, 
if  her  own  husband  should  venture  to  disagree  with 
her  on  any  point  of  judgment,  she  would  be  furious 
with  him  for  a  week.  When  I  commented  to  one 
lady  on  these  familiar  blandishments  and  criticisms 
of  shop  people  in  New  York,  she  said  indulgently: 
"Oh,  they  all  do  it.  They  don't  mean  anything;  it's 
only  their  way." 

Yet  I  have  heard  that  same  lady  hotly  protest 
against  the  wife  of  a  Colorado  silver  magnate  (whom 
she  had  known  for  years)  daring  to  address  her  by 
her  Christian  name.     "That  vulgar  Westerner!"  she 


IN    REHEARSAL  89 

exclaimed;  "the  next  thing  she'll  be  calling  me  dear!" 
Democracy  remains  democracy  as  long  as  it  can- 
not possibly  encroach  upon  the  social  sphere ;  the  mo- 
ment the  boundary  is  passed,  however,  and  the  suc- 
cessful "climber"  threatens  equal  footing  with  the 
grande  dame  on  the  other  side,  herself  still  climbing 
in  England  or  Europe,  anathema!  The  fact  is,  that 
Americans,  like  all  other  very  young  people,  seek  to 
hide  their  lack  of  assurance — social  and  otherwise — 
by  an  aggressive  policy  of  defense  which  they  call 
independence;  but  which  is  verily  snobbism  of  the 
most  virulent  brand.  From  the  John  Browns  to  the 
multimillionaires  with  daughters  who  are  duchesses, 
they  are  intent  on  emphasizing  their  own  position 
and  its  privileges ;  unconscious  that  if  they  themselves 
were  sure  of  it  so  would  be  everyone  else. 

But  inevitably  the  actors  must  stumble  and  stam- 
mer, and  insert  false  lines,  before  finally  they  shall 
"feel"  their  parts,  and  forge  ahead  to  the  victory  of 
finished  performance. 


Ill 

OFF  DUTY 

When  one  ponders  what  the  New  Yorker  in  his 
leisure  hours  most  enjoys,  one  answers  without  hesi- 
tation: feeding".  The  word  is  not  elegant,  but 
neither  is  the  act,  as  one  sees  it  in  process  at  the  mam- 
moth restaurants.  Far  heavier  and  more  prolonged 
than  mere  eating  and  drinking  is  this  serious  cult  of 
food  on  the  part  of  the  average  Manhattanite.  It 
has  even  led  to  the  forming  of  a  distinct  "set,"  chris- 
tened by  some  satirical  outsider:  "Lobster  Society." 

Here  are  met  the  moneyed  plutocrat  and  his  ex- 
uberant "lady  friend,"  the  mauve-waistcoated  sport- 
ing man,  the  society  declassee  with  her  gorgeous  jew- 
els and  little  air  of  tragedy,  the  expansive  Hebrew 
and  his  chorus  girl,  the  gauche  out-of-town  couple 
with  their  beaming  smiles  and  last  season's  clothes: 
all  that  hazy  limbo  that  hovers  on  the  social  boundary- 
line,  but  hovers  futilely — and  that  seeks  to  smother  its 
disappointment  with  elaborate  feasts  of  over-rich 
food. 

It  is  amazing  the  thousands  of  these  people  that 
there  are — New  York  seems  to  breed  them  faster 
than  any  other  type ;  and  the  hundreds  of  restaurants 
they  support.    Every  hotel  has  its  three  or  four  huge 

■  30 


IN    REHEARSAL  31 

dining-rooms,  its  Palm  Garden,  Dutch  Grill,  etc.; 
but,  as  all  these  were  not  enough,  shrewd  Frenchmen 
and  Germans  and  Viennese  have  dotted  the  city  with 
cafes  and  hrauhausen  and  Little  Hungaries,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  alarming  Egyptian  and  Turkish  abor- 
tions that  are  the  favourite  erection  of  the  American 
restaurateur  himself. 

The  typical  New  York  feeding-place  from  the 
outside  is  a  palace  in  terra  cotta;  from  the  inside,  a 
vast  galleried  room  or  set  of  rooms,  upheld  by  rose 
or  ochre  marble  pillars,  carpeted  with  thick  red  rugs, 
furnished  with  bright  gilt  chairs  and  heavily  da- 
masked, flower-laden  tables —  the  whole  interspersed 
and  overtopped  and  surrounded  by  a  jumble  of  foun- 
tains, gilt-and-onyx  Sphinxes,  caryatids,  centaurs, 
bacchantes,  and  heaven  knows  what  else  of  the  super- 
fluous and  disassociated.  To  reach  one's  table,  one 
must  thread  one's  way  through  a  maze  of  lions  couch- 
ant,  peacocks  with  spread  mother  o'  pearl  tails,  and 
opalescent  dragons  that  turn  out  to  be  lights :  proud 
detail  of  the  "million  dollar  decorative  scheme"  re- 
ferred to  in  the  advertisements  of  the  house.  Finally 
anchored  in  this  sea  of  sumptuousness,  one  is  con- 
fronted with  the  dire  necessity  of  ordering  a  meal 
from  a  menu  that  would  have  staggered  Epicurus. 

There  is  the  table  d'hote  of  nine  courses — any  one 
of  them  a  meal  in  itself;  or  there  is  the  bewildering 
carte  du  jour,  from  which  to  choose  strawberries  in 
December,  oranges  in  May,  or  whatever  collection  of 
ruinous  exotics  one  pleases.  The  New  Yorker  him- 
self goes  methodically  down  the  list,  from  oysters  to 


32  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

iced  pudding;  impartial  in  his  recognition  of  the 
merits  of  lobster  bisque,  sole  au  g?'atin,  creamed 
sweetbreads,  porterhouse  steak,  broiled  partridge  and 
Russian  salad.  He  sits  down  to  this  orgy  about  seven 
o'clock,  and  rises — or  is  assisted  to  rise — about  ten  or 
half  past,  unless  he  is  going  on  to  a  play,  in  which 
case  he  disposes  of  his  nine  courses  with  the  same 
lightning  execution  displayed  at  his  quick-lunch, 
only  increasing  his  drink  supply  to  facihtate  the 
process. 

Meanwhile  there  is  the  "Neaj)olitan  Quartet," 
and  the  Hungarian  Rhapsodist,  and  the  lady  in  the 
pink  satin  blouse  who  sings  "The  Rosary,"  to  amuse 
our  up-to-date  Nero.  I  wonder  what  the  Romans 
would  make  of  the  modern  cabaret?  Like  so  many 
French  importations,  stripped  in  transit  of  their  sav- 
ing coat  of  French  esprit,  the  cabaret  in  American  be- 
comes helplessly  vulgar.  Extreme  youth  cannot  carry 
off  the  risque,  which  requires  the  salt  of  worldly  wis- 
dom ;  it  only  succeeds  in  being  rowdy.  And  the  noisy 
songs,  the  loud  jokes,  the  blatant  dances — all  the 
spurious  clap-trap  which  in  these  New  York  feeding- 
resorts  passes  for  amusement — point  to  the  most 
youthful  sort  of  rowdyism:  to  a  popular  discrimina- 
tion still  in  embryo.  But  the  New  Yorker  dotes  on 
it — the  cabaret,  I  mean;  if  for  no  other  reason,  be- 
cause it  satisfies  his  passion  for  getting  his  money's 
worth.  He  is  ready  to  pay  a  handsome  price,  but  he 
demands  handsome  return,  and  no  "extras"  if  you 
please. 

When  the  ten-cent  charge  for  bread  and  butter 


IN    REHEARSAL  33 

was  inaugurated  by  New  York  restaurateurs  last 
Spring,  their  patrons  were  furious;  it  hinted  of  the 
parsimonious  European  charge  for  "cover."  But  if 
the  short-sighted  proprietors  had  quietly  added  five 
cents  to  the  price  of  each  article  on  the  menu,  it  would 
have  passed  unnoticed:  it  is  not  paying  that  the 
American  minds,  it  is  "being  done."  Conceal  from 
him  this  humiliating  consciousness,  and  he  will  emjity 
his  pockets.  Thus,  at  the  theatre,  seats  are  considera- 
bly higher  than  in  European  cities,  but  they  are  also 
far  more  comfortable;  and  include  a  program,  suffi- 
cient room  for  one's  hat  and  wrap,  the  free  services 
of  the  usher,  and  as  many  glasses  of  the  beloved  ice- 
water  as  one  cares  to  call  for.  People  would  not 
tolerate  being  disturbed  throughout  the  performance 
by  the  incessant  demands  for  a  "petite  service"  and 
other  supplements  that  persecute  the  Continental 
theatre-goer ;  while  as  for  being  forced  to  leave  one's 
wraj)s  in  a  garde-robe,  and  to  pay  for  the  privilege  of 
fighting  to  recover  them,  the  independent  American 
would  snort  at  the  bare  idea.  He  insists  on  a  maxi- 
mum amount  of  comfort  for  his  money,  and  on  pay- 
ing for  it  in  a  lump  simi,  either  at  the  beginning  or 
at  the  end.  Convenience,  the  almighty  god,  ac- 
knowledges no  limits  to  its  sway. 

It  was  convenience  that  until  recently  made  it  the 
custom  for  the  average  New  York  play-goer  to  ap- 
pear at  the  theatre  in  morning  dress.  The  tired  busi- 
ness man  could  afford  to  go  to  the  play,  but  had  not 
the  energy  to  change  for  it;  so,  naturally,  his  wife 
and  daughter  did  not  change  either,  and  the  orches- 


34  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

tra  presented  a  commonplace  aspect,  made  up  of 
shirtwaists  and  high-buttoned  coats.  Now,  however, 
following  the  example  of  society,  people  are  begin- 
ning to  break  away  from  this  unattractive  austerity; 
and  theatre  audiences  are  enlivened  by  a  sprinkling  of 
light  frocks  and  white  shirts. 

We  have  already  commented  on  the  most  popular 
type  of  dramatic  amusement  in  America:  the  ex- 
travaganza, and  musical  comedy  so-called;  it  is  time 
now  to  mention  the  gradually  developing  legitimate 
drama,  which  has  its  able  exponents  in  Augustus 
Thomas,  Edward  Sheldon,  Eugene  Walter,  the  late 
Clyde  Fitch,  and  half  a  dozen  others  of  no  less  in- 
sight and  ability.  Their  plays  present  the  stirring 
and  highly  dramatic  scenes  of  American  business  and 
social  life  (using  social  in  its  original  sense) ;  and 
while  for  the  foreigner  many  of  the  situations  lose 
their  full  significance — being  peculiar  to  America,  in 
rather  greater  degree  than  French  plays  are  peculiar 
to  France,  and  English  to  England — even  he  must  be 
impressed  with  the  vivid  realism  and  powerful  climax 
of  the  best  American  comedies. 

The  nation  as  a  whole  is  vehemently  opposed  to 
tragedy  in  any  form,  and  demands  of  books  and  plays 
alike  that  they  invariably  shall  end  well.  Such  bril- 
liant exceptions  as  Eugene  Walter's  "The  Easiest 
Way"  and  Sheldon's  "The  Nigger,"  only  prove  the 
rule  that  the  successful  piece  must  have  a  "happy 
ending."  High  finance  plays  naturally  an  important 
part  as  nucleus  of  plots;  also  the  marriage  of  work- 
ing girls  with  scions  of  the  Upper  Ten.     But  the 


IN    REHEARSAL  35 

playwright  has  only  to  look  into  the  newspapers,  in 
this  country  of  perpetual  adventure,  to  find  enough 
romance  and  sensation  to  fill  every  theatre  in  New 
York. 

It  seems  almost  as  though  the  people  themselves 
are  surfeited  with  the  actual  drama  that  surrounds 
them,  for  they  are  rather  languid  as  an  audience,  and 
must  be  piqued  by  more  and  more  startling  "thrillers" 
before  moved  to  enthusiasm.  Even  then  their  ap- 
plause is  usually  directed  towards  the  "star,"  in 
whom  they  take  far  keener  interest  than  in  the  play 
itself.  It  is  interesting  to  follow  this  passionate  in- 
dividualism of  the  nation  that  dominates  its  amuse- 
ments as  well  as  its  activities.  The  player,  not  the 
play's  the  thing  with  Americans;  and  on  theatrical 
bills  the  name  of  the  principal  actor  or  actress  is  al- 
ways given  the  largest  type,  the  title  of  the  piece  next 
largest ;  while  the  author  is  tucked  away  like  an  after- 
thought in  letters  that  can  just  be  seen. 

The  acute  American  business  man,  who  is  always 
a  business  man,  whether  financing  a  railroad  or  a 
Broadway  farce,  is  not  slow  to  profit  by  the  penchant 
of  the  public  for  "big"  names.  By  means  of  unlim- 
ited advertising  and  the  right  kind  of  notoriety,  he 
builds  up  ordinary  actors  into  valuable  theatrical 
properties.  Given  a  comedian  of  average  talent, 
average  good  looks,  and  an  average  amount  of  mag- 
netism, and  a  clever  press  agent:  he  has  a  star!  This 
brilliant  being  draws  five  times  the  salary  of  the  lead- 
ing lady  of  former  years  (a  woman  star  is  obviously 
a  shade  or  two  more  radiant  than  a  man),  and  in  re- 


36  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

turn  has  only  to  confide  her  Hfe  history  and  beauty 
recipes  to  her  adoring  pubhc,  via  the  current  maga- 
zines. Furthermore  stars  are  received  with  open  arms 
by  Society  (which  leading  ladies  were  not),  and  may 
be  divorced  oftener  than  other  people  without  injury 
— rather  with  distinct  advantage — to  their  reputation. 
Each  new  divorce  gives  a  fillip  to  the  public  curiosity, 
and  so  brings  in  money  to  the  box  office. 

Not  only  in  the  field  of  the  "legitimate"  is  a  big 
name  the  all-important  asset  of  an  artist.  Ladies 
who  have  figured  in  murder  trials,  gentlemen  whom 
circumstantial  evidence  alone  has  failed  to  prove  as- 
sassins, are  eagerly  sought  after  by  enterprising 
vaudeville  managers,  who  beg  them  to  accept  the  pal- 
try sum  of  a  thousand  dollars  a  week,  for  showing 
themselves  to  curious  crowds,  and  delivering  a  ten- 
minute  monologue  on  the  deficiencies  of  American 
law!  How  or  why  the  name  has  become  "big"  is  a 
matter  of  only  financial  moment;  and  Americans  of 
rigid  respectability  flock  to  stare  at  ex-criminals, 
members  of  the  under-world  temporarily  in  the  lime- 
light, and  young  persons  whose  sole  claim  to  distinc- 
tion hes  in  the  glamour  shed  by  one-time  royal  favour. 
Thanks  to  press  agents  and  newspapers,  the  aifairs 
of  this  motley  collection — as  indeed  of  "stars"  of 
every  lustre — are  so  constantly  and  so  intimately  be- 
fore the  pubhc,  that  one  hears  people  of  all  classes 
discussing  them  as  though  they  were  their  lifelong 
friends. 

Thus  at  the  theatre:  "Oh,  no,  the  play  isn't  any- 
thing, but  I  come  to  see  Laura  Lee.    Isn't  she  stun- 


IN    REHEARSAL  37 

ning?  You  ought  to  see  her  in  blue — she  says  herself 
blue's  her  colour.  I  don't  think  much  of  these  dresses 
she's  wearing  tonight;  she  got  them  at  Heloise's. 
Now  generally  she  gets  her  things  at  Robert's — she 
says  Robert  just  suits  her  genre" 

Again,  at  the  restaurant :  "How  seedy  May  Mor- 
ris is  looking — there  she  is,  over  by  the  window.  You 
know  she  divorced  her  first  husband  because  he  made 
her  pay  the  rent,  and  now  she's  leading  a  cat-and-dog 
life  with  this  one  because  he's  jealous  of  the  man- 
ager. That's  INIrs.  Willy  Spry  who  just  spoke  to  her ; 
well,  I  didn't  know  she  knew  her!" 

What  they  do  not  know  about  celebrities  of  all 
sorts  would  be  hard  to  teach  Americans,  particularly 
the  women.  They  can  tell  you  how  many  eggs  Ca- 
ruso eats  for  breakfast,  and  describe  to  the  last  rose- 
bush Maude  Adams'  country  home;  their  interest  in 
the  drama  and  music  these  people  interpret  trails 
along  tepidly,  in  wake  of  their  worship  for  the  suc- 
cessful individual.  Americans  are  not  a  musical  peo- 
ple. They  go  to  opera  because  it  is  fashionable  to  be 
seen  there,  and  to  concerts  and  recitals  for  the  most 
part  because  they  confer  the  proper  aesthetic  touch. 
But  only  a  handful  have  any  real  knowledge  or  love 
of  music,  and  that  handful  is  continually  crucified  by 
the  indifference  of  the  rest.  I  can  think  of  no  more 
painful  experience  for  a  sincere  music-lover  than  to 
attend  a  performance  at  the  Metropolitan  Opera ;  and 
this  not  only  because  people  are  continually  coming  in 
and  going  out,  destroying  the  continuity  of  the  piece, 
but  because  the  latter  itself  is  carelessly  executed  and 


38  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

often  faulty.  Here  again  the  quartet  of  exorbitantly 
paid  stars  are  charged  with  the  success  of  the  entire 
performance;  the  conductor  is  an  insignificant  quan- 
tity, and  the  chorus  goes  its  lackadaisical  way  un- 
heeded— even  smiling  and  exchanging  remarks  in  the 
background,  with  no  one  the  wiser.  From  a  box  near 
the  stage  I  once  saw  two  priests  in  "A'ida'  jocosely 
tweak  one  another's  beards  just  at  the  moment  of  the 
majestic  finale.  Why  not?  The  audience,  if  it  pays 
attention  to  the  opera  at  all,  pays  it  to  Cai-uso  and 
Destinn  and  Homer — to  the  big  name  and  the  big 
voice ;  not  to  petty  detail  such  as  chorus  and  mise-en- 
scene. 

But  of  course  opera  is  the  last  thing  for  which 
people  buy  ten-dollar  seats  at  the  Metropolitan.  The 
"Golden  Horse-Shoe"  is  the  spectacle  they  pay  to  see; 
the  masterpieces  of  Celeste  and  Heldise  ( as  exhibited 
by  Madame  Millions  and  her  intimates)  rather  than 
the  masterpieces  of  Wagner  or  Puccini  lure  them 
within  the  great  amphitheatre.  And  certain  it  is  that 
the  famous  double  tier  of  boxes  boasts  more  beautiful 
women,  gorgeously  arrayed,  than  any  other  place  of 
assembly  in  America.  Yet  as  I  first  saw  them,  from 
my  modest  seat  in  the  orchestra,  they  appeared  to  be 
a  collection  of  radiant  Venuses  sitting  in  gilded  bath- 
tubs :  above  the  high  box-rail,  only  rows  of  gleaming 
shoulders,  marvellously  dressed  heads,  and  winking 
jewels  were  visible.  Later,  in  the  foyer,  I  discovered 
that  some  of  them  at  least  were  more  modernly  at- 
tired than  the  lady  who  rose  from  the  sea,  but  the  first 
impression  has  always  remained  the  more  vivid. 


IN    REHEARSAL  39 

Society — ever  delicioiisly  naive  in  airing  its  igno- 
rance— is  heard  to  express  some  quaint  criticisms  at 
opera.  At  a  performance  of  Tristan,  I  sat  next  a 
debutante  who  had  the  reputation  of  being  "musical." 
In  the  midst  of  the  glorious  second  act,  she  whispered 
plaintively,  "I  do  hate  it  when  our  night  falls  on 
Tiistan — it's  such  a  sad  story!" 

It  will  be  interesting  to  follow  New  York  musical 
education,  if  the  indefatigable  Mr.  Hammerstein  suc- 
ceeds in  his  present  proposal  to  offer  the  lighter 
French  and  Italian  operas  at  popular  prices. 
Hitherto  music  along  with  every  other  art  in  Amer- 
ica has  been  so  commercialized  that  wealth  rather  than 
appreciation  and  true  fondness  has  controlled  it.  But 
meanwhile  there  has  developed,  instinctively  and  irre- 
pressibly,  the  much  disparaged  ragtime.  It  is  the  pose 
among  musical  precieux  loudly  to  decry  any  sugges- 
tion of  ragtime  as  a  national  art ;  yet  the  fact  remains 
that  it  has  grown  up  spontaneously  as  the  popular 
and  the  only  distinctly  American  form  of  musical  ex- 
pression. Of  course,  the  old  shuffling  clog-dances  of 
the  negroes  were  responsible  for  it  in  the  beginning. 
I  was  visiting  some  Americans  in  Tokio  when  a  port- 
folio of  the  "new  music"  was  sent  out  to  them  (1899) , 
and  I  remember  that  it  consisted  entirely  of  cake- 
walks  and  "coon  songs,"  with  negro  titles  and  pic- 
tures of  negroes  dancing,  on  the  cover.  But  this  has 
long  since  ceased  to  be  characteristic  of  ragtime  as  a 
whole,  which  takes  its  inspiration  from  every  phase  of 
nervous,  jDrecipitate  American  life. 

In  the  jerky,  syncopated  measures,  one  can  almost 


40  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

hear  between  beats  the  famihar  rush  of  feet,  hurry- 
ing along — stumbHng — halting  abruptly — only  to  fly 
ahead  faster.  Ragtime  is  the  pell-mell,  helter-skelter, 
headlong  spirit  of  America  expressed  in  tune ;  and  no 
other  people,  however  charmed  by  its  peculiar  fascina- 
tion and  wild  swing,  can  play  or  dance  to  it  like 
Americans.  It  is  instinctive  with  them ;  where  classi- 
cal music,  so  called,  is  a  laboriously  acquired  taste. 

New  Yorkers  in  particular  take  their  artistic  hob- 
bies very  seriously;  not  only  music  and  the  conven- 
tional arts,  but  all  those  occult  and  mystic  ofF-shoots 
that  abound  wherever  there  are  idle  people.  To  as- 
suage the  ennui  that  dogs  excessive  wealth,  they  de- 
vote themselves  to  all  sorts  of  cults  and  intricate  be- 
liefs. Swamis,  crj^stal-gazers,  astrologers,  mind- 
readers,  and  Messiahs  of  every  kind  and  colour  reap 
a  luxurious  harvest  in  New  York.  Women  especially 
have  a  new  creed  for  every  month  in  the  year;  and 
discuss  "the  aura,"  and  "the  submerged  self,"  and 
the  "spiritual  significance  of  colour,"  with  j)rofound 
solemnity.  On  being  presented  to  a  lady,  you  are  apt 
to  be  asked  your  birth  date,  the  number  of  letters  in 
your  Christian  name,  your  favourite  hue,  and  other 
momentous  questions  that  must  be  cleared  away  be- 
fore acquaintance  can  proceed,  or  even  begin  at  all. 

"John?"  cries  the  lady.  "I  knew  you  were  a  John, 
the  minute  I  saw  you!  Now,  what  do  you  think  I 
am?" 

You  are  sure  to  say  a  "^label"  where  she  is  an 
"Edith,"  or  a  Gladys  where  she  is  a  Helen,  or  to  com- 
mit some  other  blunder  which  takes  the  better  part 


IN    REHEARSAL  41 

of  an  hour  to  be  explained  to  you.  Week-end  parties 
are  perfect  hot-beds  of  occultism,  each  guest  striving 
to  out-argue  every  other  in  the  race  to  gain  proselytes 
for  his  rehgion  of  the  moment. 

The  American  house-party  on  the  whole  is  a  much 
more  serious  affair  than  its  original  English  model. 
The  anxious  American  hostess  never  quite  gains  that 
casual,  easy  manner  of  putting  her  house  at  the  dis- 
posal of  her  guests,  and  then  forgetting  it  and  them. 
She  must  be  always  "entertaining,"  than  which  there 
is  no  more  dreary  persecution  for  the  long-suffering 
visitor.  Except  for  this,  her  hospitality  is  delightful ; 
and  it  is  a  joy  to  leave  the  dust  and  roar  of  New 
York,  and  motor  out  to  one  of  the  many  charming 
country  houses  on  Long  Island  or  up  the  Hudson 
for  a  peaceful  week-end.  Americans  show  great  good 
sense  in  clinging  to  their  native  Colonial  architecture, 
which  lends  itself  admirably  to  the  simple,  well-kept 
lawns  and  old-fashioned  gardens.  In  comparison 
wath  country  estates  of  the  old  world,  one  misses  the 
dignity  of  ancient  stone  and  trees ;  but  gains  the  airy 
openness  and  many  luxuries  of  modern  comfort. 

As  for  country  life  in  general,  it  is  further  ad- 
vanced than  on  the  Continent,  but  not  so  far  ad- 
vanced as  in  England.  Americans,  being  a  young 
people,  are  naturally  an  informal  people,  however 
they  may  rig  themselves  out  when  they  are  on  show. 
They  love  informal  clothes,  and  customs,  and  the 
happy-go-lucky  freedom  of  out-of-doors.  On  the 
other  hand,  they  are  not  a  sporting  people,  except  by 
individuals.     They  are  athletes  rather  than  sports- 


42  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

men;  the  passion  for  individual  prowess  being  very 
strong,  the  devotion  to  sport  for  sport's  sake  much 
less  in  evidence.  The  spirit  of  competition  is  as  keen 
in  the  athletic  field  as  it  is  in  Wall  Street ;  and  at  the 
intercollegiate  games  enthusiasm  is  always  centred  on 
the  particular  hero  of  each  side,  rather  than  on  the 
play  of  the  team  as  a  whole.  The  American  in  gen- 
eral distinguishes  himself  in  the  "individual"  rather 
than  the  team  sports — in  running,  swimming,  skat- 
ing, and  tennis ;  all  of  which  display  to  fine  advantage 
his  wiry,  lean  agility. 

At  the  same  time,  there  is  nothing  more  typically 
American  or  more  inspiring  to  watch  than  one  of  the 
great  collegiate  team  games,  when  thirty  thousand 
spectators  are  massed  round  the  field,  breathlessly  in- 
tent on  every  detail.  Even  in  an  immense  city  like 
New  York,  on  the  day  of  a  big  game,  one  feels  a  pe- 
culiar excitement  in  the  air.  The  hotels  are  full  of 
eager  boys  with  sweaters,  through  the  streets  dash 
gaily  decorated  motors,  and  the  stations  are  crowded 
with  fathers,  mothers,  sisters  and  sweethearts  on  their 
way  to  cheer  their  particular  hopeful.  For  once,  too, 
the  harassed  man  of  aff*airs  throws  business  to  the 
four  winds,  remembers  only  that  he  is  an  "old  grad" 
of  Harvard  or  Princeton  or  Yale,  and  hurries  off  to 
cheer  for  his  Alma  Mater. 

Then  at  the  field  there  are  the  two  vast  semicircles 
of  challenging  colours,  the  advance  "rooting" — the 
songs,  yells,  ringing  of  bells  and  tooting  of  horns — 
that  grows  to  positive  frenzy  as  the  two  contesting 
teams  come  in  and  take  their  places.     And,  as  the 


IN    REHEARSAL  43 

game  proceeds,  the  still  more  fervent  shouts — mid- 
dle-aged men  standing  up  on  their  seats  and  bawling 
three-times-threes,  young  girls  laughing,  crying,  split- 
ting their  gloves  in  madness  of  applause,  small  boys 
screeching  encouragement  to  "our  side,"  withering 
taunts  to  the  opponents ;  and  then  all  at  once  a  deathly 
hush — in  such  a  huge  congregation  twice  as  impres- 
sive as  all  their  noise — while  a  goal  is  made  or  a  home 
base  run.  And  the  enthusiasm  breaks  forth  more 
furious  than  ever. 

We  are  a  long  way  now  from  the  stodgy,  dull- 
eyed  diner-out,  in  his  murky  lair ;  now,  we  are  looking 
on  at  youth  at  its  best — its  most  eager  and  uncon- 
scious ;  in  which  guise  Americans  in  their  vivid  charm 
are  irresistible. 


IV 

MISS  NEW  YORK,  JR. 

There  is  no  woman  in  modern  times  of  whom  so 
much  has  been  written,  so  little  said,  as  of  the  Amer- 
ican woman.  Essayists  have  echoed  one  another  in 
pronouncing  her  the  handsomest,  the  best  dressed,  the 
most  virtuous,  and  altogether  the  most  attractive 
woman  the  world  round.  Psychologists  have  let  her 
carefully  alone;  she  is  not  a  simple  problem  to  ex- 
pound. She  is,  however,  a  most  interesting  one,  and 
I  have  not  the  courage  to  slight  her  with  the  usual 
cursory  remarks  on  eyes,  hair,  and  figure.  She  de- 
serves a  second  and  more  searching  glance. 

To  her  own  countrymen  she  is  a  goddess  on  a 
pedestal  that  never  totters;  to  the  foreigner  she  is  a 
pretty,  restless,  thoroughly  selfish  female,  who  roams 
the  earth  at  scandalous  liberty,  while  her  husband  sits 
at  home  and  posts  checks.  Naturally,  the  truth — if 
one  can  get  at  truth  regarding  such  a  complex  crea- 
ture— falls  between  these  two  conceptions :  the  Amer- 
ican woman  is  a  splendid,  faulty  human  being,  in 
whom  the  extremes  of  human  weakness  and  nobility 
seem  surely  to  have  met.  She  is  the  product  of  the 
extreme  Western  philosophy  of  absolute  individual- 

44 


IN    REHEARSAL  45 

ism,  and  as  such  is  constituted  a  law  unto  herself, 
which  she  defies  the  world  to  gainsay.  At  the  same 
time  she  knows  herself  so  little  that  she  changes  and 
contradicts  this  law  constantly,  thus  bewildering  those 
who  are  trying  to  understand  it  and  her. 

For  example,  we  are  convinced  of  her  independ- 
ence. We  go  with  her  to  the  milliner's.  She  wants 
a  hat  with  plumes.  "Oh,  but,  my  dear"  says  the  sales- 
lady reprovingly,  "they  aren't  wearing  plumes  this 
season — they  aren't  wearing  them  at  all.  Everybody 
is  having  Paradise  feathers."  Madame  New  York 
instantly  declares  that  in  that  case  she  must  have 
Paradise  feathers,  too,  and  is  thoroughly  content 
when  the  same  are  added  to  the  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  other  feathers  that  flutter  out  the  avenue 
next  afternoon.  Plumes  may  be  far  more  becoming 
to  her ;  in  her  heart  she  may  secretly  regret  them ;  but 
she  must  have  what  everyone  else  has.  She  has  not 
the  independence  to  break  away  from  the  herd. 

And  so  it  is  with  all  her  costume,  her  coiffure,  the 
very  bag  on  her  wrist  and  brooch  at  her  throat :  every 
detail  must  be  that  detail  of  the  type.  She  neither 
dares  nor  knows  how  to  be  different.  But,  within  the 
stronghold  of  the  type,  she  dares  anything.  Are 
"they"  wearing  narrow  skirts?  Every  New  York 
woman  challenges  every  other,  with  her  frock  three 
inches  tighter  than  the  last  lady's.  Are  they  slashing 
skirts  to  the  ankle  in  Paris?  JNIadame  New  York 
slashes  hers  to  the  shoe-tops,  alwaj^s  provided  she  has 
the  concurrence  of  "those"  of  INIanhattan.  Once  se- 
cured by  the  sanctioix  of  the  mass,  her  instinct  for  ex- 


46  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

aggeration  is  unleashed;  her  perverse  imagination 
shakes  off  its  chronic  torpor,  and  soars  to  flights  of 
fearful  and  wonderful  audacity. 

Even  then,  however,  she  originates  no  fantasy  of 
her  own,  but  simply  elaborates  and  enlarges  upon 
the  primary  copy.  Her  impulse  is  not  to  think  and 
create,  but  to  observe  and  assimilate.  It  would  never 
occur  to  her  to  study  the  lines  of  her  head  and  ar- 
range her  hair  accordingly ;  rather  she  studies  the  head 
of  her  next-door  neighbour,  and  promptly  duplicates 
it — generally  with  distinct  improvement  over  the 
original.  True  to  her  race,  she  has  a  genius  for  imi- 
tation that  will  not  be  subdued.  But  she  is  not  an 
artist. 

For  this  reason,  the  American  woman  bores  us 
with  her  vanity,  where  the  Englishwoman  rouses  our 
tenderness,  and  the  Frenchwoman  piques  and  allures. 
There  is  an  appealing  clumsiness  in  the  way  the  Eng- 
lishwoman goes  about  adding  her  little  touches  of 
feminine  adornment ;  the  badlj/  tied  bow,  the  awkward 
bit  of  lace,  making  their  deprecating  bid  for  favour. 
The  Frenchwoman,  with  her  seductive  devices  of  al- 
ternate concealment  and  daring  displays,  lays  constant 
emphasis  on  the  two  outstanding  charms  of  all  femi- 
ninity :  mystery  and  change.  But  when  we  come  to  the 
American  woman  we  are  confronted  with  that  most 
depressing  of  personalities,  the  stereotyped.  She  has 
made  of  herself  a  mannequin  for  the  exposition  of 
expensive  clothes,  costly  jewels,  and  a  mass  of  futile 
accessories  that  neither  in  themselves  nor  as  pointers 
to  an  individuality  signify  anything  whatsoever.  This 


IN    REHEARSAL  47 

figure  of  set  elegance  she  has  overlaid  with  a  deter- 
mined animation  that  is  never  allowed  to  flag,  but 
keeps  the  puppet  in  an  incessant  state  of  laughing, 
smiling,  chattering — motion  of  one  sort  or  another — 
till  we  long  for  the  machinery  to  run  down,  and  the 
show  to  be  ended. 

But  this  never  occurs,  except  when  the  entire 
elaborate  mechanism  falls  to  j^ieces  with  a  crash ;  and 
the  woman  becomes  that  wretched,  sexless  thing — a 
nervous  wreck.  Till  then,  to  use  her  own  favourite 
expression,  "she  will  go  till  she  drops,"  and  the  on- 
looker is  forced  to  watch  her  in  the  unattractive 
process. 

Of  course  the  motive  of  this  excessive  activity  on 
the  part  of  American  men  and  women  alike  is  the 
passionate  wish  to  appear  young.  As  in  the  extreme 
East  age  is  worshipped,  here  in  the  extreme  West 
youth  constitutes  a  religion,  of  which  j^oung  women 
are  the  high  priestesses.  Far  from  moving  steadily 
on  to  a  climax  in  ripe  maturity,  life  for  the  American 
girl  reaches  its  dazzling  apex  when  she  is  eighteen  or 
twenty;  this,  she  is  constantly  told  by  parents,  teach- 
ers and  friends,  is  the  golden  period  of  her  existence. 
She  is  urged  to  make  the  most  of  every  precious  min- 
ute ;  and  everything  and  everybody  must  be  sacrificed 
in  helping  her  to  do  it. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  she  is  given  the  most  com- 
fortable room  in  the  house,  the  prettiest  clothes,  the 
best  seat  at  the  theatre.  As  a  matter  of  course,  she 
accepts  them.  Why  should  it  occur  to  her  to  defer 
to  age,  when  age  anxiously  and  at  every  turn  defers 


48  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

to  her?  Oneself  as  the  pivot  of  existence  is  far  more 
interesting  than  any  other  creature;  and  it  is  all  so 
brief.  Soon  will  come  marriage,  with  its  tiresome  re- 
sponsibilities, its  liberty  curtailed,  and  children,  the 
forerunners  of  awful  middle  age.  Laugh,  dance, 
and  amuse  yourself  today  is  the  eternal  warning  in 
the  ears  of  the  American  girl ;  for  tomorrow  you  will 
be  on  the  shelf,  and  another  generation  will  have  come 
into  your  kingdom. 

The  young  lady  is  not  slow  to  hear  the  call — or  to 
follow  it.  With  feverish  haste,  she  seizes  her  preroga- 
tive of  queen  of  the  moment,  and  demands  the  satis- 
faction of  her  every  caprice.  Her  tastes  and  desires 
regulate  the  diversion  and  education  of  the  com- 
munity. What  she  favours  succeeds;  what  she 
frowns  on  fails.  A  famous  American  actress  told 
me  that  she  traced  her  fortune  to  her  popularity  with 
young  girls.  "I  never  snub  them,"  she  said;  "when 
they  write  me  silly  letters,  I  answer  them.  I  guard 
my  reputation  to  the  point  of  prudishness,  so  that  I 
may  meet  them  socially,  and  invite  them  to  my  home. 
They  are  th©  talisman  of  my  career.  It  matters  little 
what  I  play — if  the  young  girls  like  me,  I  have  a 
success." 

The  wise  theatrical  manager,  however,  is  differ- 
ently minded.  He,  too,  has  his  harvests  to  reap  from 
the  approval  of  Miss  New  York,  Jr.,  and  arranges 
his  program  accordingly.  Thus  the  American  play- 
goer is  treated  to  a  series  of  musical  comedies,  full  of 
smart  slang  scrappily  composed  round  a  hybrid 
waltz;  so-called  "society  plays,"  stocked  with  sumptu- 


IN    REHEARSAL  49 

ous  clothes,  manj^  servants,  and  shallow  dialogue ;  un- 
recognizable "adapted"  pieces,  expurgated  not  only 
of  the  risque,  but  of  all  wit  and  local  atmosphere  as 
well;  and  finally  the  magnificently  vacuous  extrava- 
ganza: this  syrup  and  mush  is  regularly  served  to 
the  theatre-going  public,  and  labelled  "drama"!  Yet 
thousands  of  grown  men  and  women  meekly  swallow 
it — even  come  to  prefer  it — because  Madeinoiselle 
Miss  so  decrees. 

She  also  is  originally  responsible  for  the  multi- 
tude of  "society  novels,"  vapid  short  stories,  and  pro- 
fusely illustrated  gift  books,  which  make  up  the  liter- 
ature of  modern  America.  On  her  altar  is  the  vulgar 
"Girl  Calendar,"  the  still  more  vulgar  poster;  flaunt- 
ing her  self-conscious  prettiness  from  every  shop  win- 
dow, every  subway  and  elevated  book-stall.  She  is 
displayed  to  us  with  dogs,  with  cats,  in  the  country, 
in  town,  getting  into  motors,  getting  out  of  boats, 
driving  a  four-in-hand,  or  again  a  vacuum  cleaner — 
for  she  is  indispensable  to  the  advertising  agent.  Her 
fixed  good  looks  and  studied  poses  have  invaded  the 
Continent;  and  even  in  Spain,  in  the  sleepy  old  town 
of  Toledo,  among  the  grave  prints  of  Velasquez  and 
Ribera,  I  came  across  the  familiar  pert  silhouette  with 
its  worshipping-male  counterpart,  and  read  the  fa- 
miliar title:    "At  the  Opera." 

From  all  this  superficial  self-importance,  whether 
of  her  own  or  her  elders'  making,  one  might  easily 
write  the  American  girl  down  as  a  vain,  empty-headed 
nonentity,  not  worth  thoughtful  consideration.  On 
the  contrary,  she  decidedly  is  worth  it.    Behind  her 


50  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

arrogance  and  foolish  affectations  is  a  mind  alert  to 
stimulus,  a  heart  generous  and  warm  to  respond,  a 
spirit  brave  and  resourceful.  It  takes  adversity  to 
prove  the  true  quality  of  this  girl,  for  then  her  arro- 
gance becomes  high  determination;  her  absurdities 
fall  from  her,  like  the  cheap  cloak  they  are,  and  she 
takes  her  natural  place  in  the  world  as  a  courageous, 
clear-sighted  woman. 

I  believe  that  among  the  working  girls  is  to  be 
found  the  finest  and  most  distinct  type  of  American 
woman.  This  sounds  a  sweeping  statement,  and  one 
difficult  to  substantiate;  but  let  us  examine  it. 
Whence  are  the  working  girls  of  New  York  re- 
cruited ?  From  the  families  of  immigrants,  you  guess 
at  once.  Only  a  very  small  fraction.  The  great  ma- 
jority come  from  American  homes,  in  the  North, 
South,  or  Middle  West,  where  the  fathers  have  failed 
in  business,  or  died,  or  in  some  other  way  left  the 
daughters  to  provide  for  themselves. 

The  first  impulse,  on  the  part  of  the  latter,  is  to 
go  to  New  York.  If  you  are  going  to  hang  your- 
self, choose  a  big  tree,  says  the  Talmud;  and  Amer- 
icans have  written  it  into  their  copy-books  forever. 
Whether  they  are  to  succeed  or  fail,  they  wish  to  do 
it  in  the  biggest  place,  on  the  biggest  scale  they  can 
achieve.  The  girl  who  has  to  earn  her  living,  there- 
fore, establishes  herself  in  New  York.  And  then  be- 
gins the  struggle  that  is  the  same  for  women  the 
world  over,  but  which  the  American  girl  meets  with 
a  sturdiness  and  obstinate  ambition  all  her  own. 

She  may  have  been  the  pampered  darling  of  a 


IN    REHEARSAL  61 

mansion  with  ten  servants;  stoutly  now  she  takes  up 
her  abode  in  a  "third  floor  back,"  and  becomes  her 
own  laundress.  For  it  is  part  of  all  the  contradictions 
of  which  she  is  the  unit  that,  while  the  most  reck- 
lessly extravagant,  she  is  also,  when  occasion  de- 
mands, the  most  practical  and  saving  of  women.  Her 
scant  six  or  seven  dollars  a  week  are  carefully  por- 
tioned out  to  yield  the  utmost  value  on  every  penny. 
She  walks  to  and  from  her  work,  thus  saving  ten 
cents  and  doing  benefit  to  her  complexion  at  the  same 
time  in  the  tingling  New  York  air.  In  the  shop  or 
office  she  is  quiet,  competent,  marvellously  quick  to 
seize  and  assimilate  the  details  of  a  business  which 
two  months  ago  she  had  never  heard  of.  Without 
apparent  effort,  she  soon  makes  herself  invaluable, 
and  then  comes  the  thrilling  event  of  her  first  "raise." 
I  am  talking  always  of  the  American  girl  of  good 
parentage  and  refinement,  wlio  is  the  average  New 
York  business  girl;  not  of  the  gum-chewing,  haughty 
misses  of  stupendous  pompadour  and  impertinence, 
who  condescend  to  wait  on  one  in  the  cheaper  shops. 
The  average  girl  is  sinned  against  rather  than  sin- 
ning, in  the  matter  of  impudence.  Often  of  remark- 
able prettiness,  and  always  of  neat  and  attractive  ap- 
pearance, she  has  not  only  the  usual  masculine  ad- 
vances to  contend  with,  but  also  the  liberties  of  that 
inter-sex  freedom  peculiar  to  America.  The  Eng- 
lishman or  the  European  never  outgrows  his  first 
rude  sense  of  shock  at  the  promiscuous  contact  be- 
tween men  and  women,  not  only  allowed,  but  taken  as 
a  matter  of  course  in  the  new  country.     To  see  an 


5^  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

employe,  passing"  through  a  shop,  touch  a  girl's  hand 
or  pat  her  on  the  shoulder,  while  delivering  some  mes- 
sage or  order,  scandalizes  the  foreigner  only  less  than 
the  girl's  nonchalant  acceptance  of  the  familiarity. 

But  among  these  people  there  is  none  of  the  sex 
consciousness  that  pervades  older  civilizations.  Boys 
and  girls,  instead  of  being  strictly  segregated  from 
childhood,  are  brought  up  together  in  frank  intimacy. 
Whether  the  result  is  more  or  less  desirable,  in  the 
young  man  and  young  woman,  the  fact  remains  that 
the  latter  are  quite  without  that  sex  sensitiveness 
which  would  make  their  mutual  attitude  impossible  in 
any  other  country.  If  the  girl  in  the  shop  resents  the 
touch  of  the  young  employe,  it  is  not  because  it  is  a 
man's  touch,  but  because  it  is  (as  she  considers)  the 
touch  of  an  inferior.  I  know  this  to  be  true,  from 
having  watched  young  people  in  all  classes  of  Amer- 
ican society,  and  having  observed  the  unvarying  in- 
difference with  which  these  caresses  are  bestowed  and 
received.  Indeed  it  is  slanderous  to  call  them  ca- 
resses ;  rather  are  they  the  playful  motions  of  a  lot  of 
young  puppies  or  kittens. 

The  American  girl  therefore  is  committing  no 
breach  of  dignity  when  she  allows  herself  to  be 
touched  by  men  who  are  her  equals.  But  I  have  no- 
ticed time  and  again  that  the  moment  those  trifling 
attentions  take  on  the  merest  hint  of  the  serious,  she 
is  on  guard — and  formidable.  Having*  been  trained 
all  her  life  to  take  care  of  herself  (and  in  this  she  is 
truly  and  admirably  independent),  without  fuss  or 
unnecessary  words  she  proceeds  to  put  her  knowledge 


IN    REHEARSAL  53 

to  practical  demonstration.  The  following  conversa- 
tion, heard  in  an  upper  Avenue  shop,  is  typical : 

"Morning,  Miss  Dale.  Say,  but  you're  looking 
some  swell  today — that  waist's  a  peach !  ( The  young 
floor-walker  lays  an  insinuating  hand  on  Miss  Dale's 
sleeve.)     How'd  you  like  to  take  in  a  show  tonight?" 

"Thank  you,  I'm  busy  tonight." 

"Well,  then,  tomorrow?" 

"I'm  busy  tomorrow  night,  too." 

"Oh,  all  right,  make  it  Friday — any  night  you 
say." 

Miss  Dale  leaves  the  gloves  she  has  been  sorting, 
to  face  the  floor-walker  squarely  across  the  counter. 
"Look  here,  Mr.  Barnes ;  since  you  can't  take  a  hint, 
I'll  give  it  you  straight  from  the  shoulder:  you're  not 
my  kind,  and  I'm  not  yours.  And  the  sooner  that's 
understood  between  us,  the  better  for  both.  Good 
morning." 

Here  is  none  of  the  hesitating  reserve  of  the  Eng- 
lish or  French  woman  under  the  same  circumstances, 
but  a  frank,  downright  declaration  of  fact ;  infinitely 
more  convincing  than  the  usual  stumbling  feminine 
excuses.  It  may  be  added  that,  while  the  American 
girl  in  a  shop  is  generally  a  fine  type  of  creature,  the 
American  man  in  a  shop  is  generally  inferior.  Other- 
wise he  would  "get  out  and  hustle  for  a  bigger  job." 
His  feminine  colleagues  realize  this,  and  are  apt  to 
despise  him  in  consequence.  Certainly  there  is  little 
of  any  over-intimacy  between  shop  men  and  girls; 
and  the  demorahzing  English  system  of  "living-in" 
does  not  exist. 


54  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

But  there  is  a  deeper  reason  for  the  general  moral- 
ity of  the  American  working  girl:  her  high  opinion 
of  herself.  This  passion  (for  it  is  really  that),  which 
in  the  girl  of  idle  wealth  shows  itself  in  cold  selfish- 
ness and  meaningless  adornment,  in  her  self-depend- 
ent sister  reaches  the  point  of  an  ideal.  When  the 
American  girl  goes  into  business,  it  is  not  as  a  make- 
shift until  she  shall  marry,  or  until  something  else 
turns  up;  it  is  because  she  has  confidence  in  herself 
to  make  her  own  life,  and  to  make  it  a  success.  The 
faint  heart  and  self-mistrust  which  work  the  undo- 
ing of  girls  of  this  class  in  other  nations  have  no 
place  in  the  character  of  Miss  America.  Resolutely 
she  fixes  her  goal,  and  nothing  can  stop  her  till  she 
has  attained  it.  Failure,  disappointment,  rebuff  only 
seem  to  steel  her  purpose  stronger;  and,  if  the  worst 
comes  to  worst,  nine  times  out  of  ten  she  will  die 
rather  than  acknowledge  herself  beaten  by  surren- 
dering to  a  man. 

But  she  dies  hard,  and  has  generally  compassed 
her  purpose  long  since.  It  may  be  confined  to  ris- 
ing from  "notions"  to  "imported  models"  in  a  single 
shop ;  or  it  may  be  running  the  gamut  from  office  girl 
to  head  manager  of  an  important  business.  No  mat- 
ter how  ambitious  her  aspiration,  or  the  seeming  im- 
possibility of  it,  the  American  girl  is  very  apt  to  get 
what  she  wants  in  the  end.  She  has  the  three  great 
assets  for  success:  pluck,  self-confidence,  and  keen 
wits;  and  they  carry  her  often  far  beyond  her  most 
daring  dreams  of  attainment. 

My  friend,  Cynthia  Brand,  is  an  example.     She 


IN    REHEARSAL  55 

came  to  New  York  when  she  was  twenty-two,  with 
thirty  dollars  and  an  Idea.  The  idea  was  to  design 
clothes  for  young  girls  between  the  ages  of  twelve 
and  twenty;  clothes  that  should  be  at  once  simple 
and  distinguished,  and  many  miles  removed  from 
the  rigid  commonplaceness  of  the  "Misses'  Depart- 
ment." All  very  well,  but  where  was  the  shop,  the 
capital,  the  clientele?    In  the  tip  of  Cynthia's  pencil. 

She  had  two  or  three  dozen  sketches  and  one  good 
tailored  frock.  Every  American  woman  who  is  suc- 
cessful begins  with  a  good  tailored  frock.  Cynthia 
put  hers  on,  took  her  sketches  under  her  arm,  and 
went  to  the  best  dressmaking  establishment  in  New 
York.  That  is  another  characteristic  of  American 
self -appreciation:  they  always  go  straight  to  the  best. 
The  haughty  forewoman  was  bored  at  first,  but  when 
she  had  languidly  inspected  a  few  of  Cynthia's 
sketches  she  was  roused  to  interest  if  not  enthusiasm. 
Two  days  later,  Cynthia  took  her  position  as  "de- 
signer for  jeunne  filles"  at  L 's,  at  a  salary  which 

even  for  New  York  was  considerable. 

Hence  the  capital.  The  clientele  developed  in- 
evitably, and  was  soon  excuse  in  itself  for  the  girl  to 
start  a  place  of  her  own.  At  the  end  of  her  third 
year  in  New  York,  she  saw  her  dream  of  independ- 
ence realized  in  a  chic  little  shop  marked  Brand;  at 
the  end  of  her  fifth  the  shop  had  evolved  into  an  es- 
tablishment of  three  stories.  And  ten  years  after  the 
girl  with  her  thirty  dollars  arrived  at  an  East  Side 
boarding-house,  she  put  up  a  sky-scraper — at  any 
rate  an  eleven-story  building — of  her  own;  while  the 


56  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

hall  bedroom  at  the  boarding-house  is  become  a  beau- 
tiful apartment  on  Central  Park  West.  And  mean- 
while someone  made  the  discovery  that  Cynthia  Brand 
was  one  of  the  Brands  of  Richmond,  and  Society 
took  her  up.  Today  she  is  a  personage,  as  well  as  one 
of  the  keenest  business  women,  in  New  York. 

Marvellous,  but  a  unique  experience,  you  say. 
Unique  only  in  degree  of  success,  not  in  the  fact  it- 
self. There  are  hundreds,  even  thousands,  of  Cyn- 
thia Brands  plying  their  prosperous  trades  in  the 
American  commercial  capital.  As  photographers, 
decorators,  restaurant  and  tea-room  proprietors,  jew- 
ellers, florists,  and  specialists  of  every  kind,  these  en- 
terprising women  are  calmly  proving  that  the  home 
is  by  no  means  their  only  sphere;  that  in  the  realm 
of  economics  at  least  they  are  the  equals  both  in  en- 
ergy and  intelligence  of  their  comrade  man. 

It  is  interesting  to  contrast  this  strongly  femi- 
nist attitude  of  the  American  woman  with  the  suf- 
fragism  of  her  militant  British  sister.  No  two 
methods  of  obtaining  the  same  result  could  be  more 
different.  Years  ago  the  American  woman  emanci- 
pated herself,  without  ostentation  or  outcry,  by 
quietly  taking  her  place  in  the  commonwealth  as  a 
bread-winner.  Voluntarily  she  stepped  down  from 
the  pedestal  (to  which,  however,  her  sentimental  con- 
frere promptly  re-raised  her),  and  set  about  claiming 
her  share  in  the  business  of  life.  To  disregard  her 
now  would  be  futile.  She  is  too  important;  she  has 
made  herself  too  vital  a  factor  in  economic  activity 
to  be  disregarded  when  it  comes  to  civic  matters. 


IN    REHEARSAL  67 

And  so,  while  Englishwomen  less  progressive  in 
the  true  sense  of  the  word  have  been  window-smash- 
ing and  setting  fires,  the  "rights"  they  so  ardently  de- 
sire have  been  tranquilly  and  naturally  acquired  by 
their  shrewder  American  cousins.  Fifteen  of  the 
forty-odd  States  now  have  universal  suffrage ;  almost 
every  State  has  suffrage  in  some  form.  And  it  will 
be  a  very  short  time — perhaps  ten  years,  perhaps  fif- 
teen— until  all  of  the  great  continent  will  come  under 
the  equal  rule  of  men  and  women  alike. 

I  had  the  interesting  privilege  of  witnessing  the 
mammoth  Suffrage  Parade  in  New  York,  just  be- 
fore the  presidential  election  last  fall.  In  more  than 
one  way,  it  was  a  revelation.  After  the  jeering,  hoot- 
ing mob  at  the  demonstrations  in  Hyde  Park,  this  ab- 
sorbed, respectful  crowd  that  lined  both  sides  of  Fifth 
Avenue  was  even  more  impressive  than  the  procession 
of  women  itself.  But  seeing  the  latter  as  they 
marched  past  twenty  thousand  strong  gave  the  key 
to  the  enthusiasm  of  the  crowd.  A  fresh-faced,  well- 
dressed,  composed  company  of  women ;  women  of  all 
ages — college  girls,  young  matrons,  middle-aged 
mothers  with  their  daughters,  elderly  ladies  and  even 
dowagers,  white-haired  and  hearty,  made  up  the  in- 
spiring throng.  They  greeted  the  cheers  of  the  spec- 
tators smilingly,  yet  with  dignity;  their  own  cheers 
no  less  ardent  for  being  orderly  and  restrained;  and 
about  their  whole  bearing  was  a  sanity  and  good 
sense,  joined  to  a  thoroughly  feminine  wish  to  please, 
which  gave  away  the  secret  of  their  popularity. 

It  was  the  American  woman  at  her  best,  which 


58  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

means  the  American  woman  with  a  steady,  splendid 
purpose  which  she  intends  to  accompHsh,  and  in  which 
she  enlists  not  only  the  support  but  the  sympathy  of 
her  fellow-men.  With  her  own  unique  cleverness  she 
goes  about  it.  President-elect  Wilson  stole  into 
Washington  the  day  before  his  inauguration,  almost 
unnoticed,  because  everyone  was  off  to  welcome  "Gen- 
eral" Rosalie  Jones  and  her  company  of  petitioners: 
instead  of  kidnapping  the  President  (as  her  English 
sisters  would  have  planned) ,  the  astute  young  woman 
kidnapped  the  people;  winning  them  entirely  by  her 
sturdy  good  humour  and  daring  combined,  and  refus- 
ing to  part  with  a  jot  of  her  femininity  in  the  process. 
If  I  have  seemed  to  contradict  myself  in  this  brief 
analysis  of  so  complex  and  interesting  a  character  as 
the  American  woman,  I  can  only  go  back  to  my  first 
statement  that  she  herself  is  a  contradiction — only 
definite  within  her  individual  type.  The  type  of  the 
mere  woman  of  pleasure,  which  implies  the  woman 
of  wealth,  I  confess  to  finding  the  extreme  of  vapid- 
ity and  selfishness,  as  Americans  are  always  the  ex- 
treme of  something.  This  is  the  type  the  foreigner 
knows  by  heart,  and  despises.  But  the  American 
woman  of  intelligence,  the  woman  of  clear  vision,  fine 
aim,  and  splendid  accomplishment,  he  does  not  know ; 
for  she  is  at  home,  earning  her  living. 


Z'ndirunod  A  Undtnioud 
AMERICAN   WOMAN   GOES   TO    WAr! 
(march   of   the   suffragists  on    WASHINGTON) 


MATRIMONY  &  CO. 

Of  all  the  acts  which  America  has  in  solution, 
marriage  is  as  yet  the  most  unsatisfactory,  the  least 
organized.  It  is  easy  to  dismiss  it  with  a  vague  wave 
of  the  hand,  and  the  slighting  "Oh,  yes — the  divorce 
evil."  But  really  to  understand  the  problem,  with  all 
its  complex  difficulties,  one  must  go  a  great  deal  fur- 
ther— into  the  thought  and  simple  animal  feeling  of 
the  people  who  harbour  the  divorce  evil. 

Physiologically  speaking,  Americans  are  made  up 
of  nerves;  psychologically  they  are  made  up  of  sen- 
timent: a  volatile  combination,  fatal  to  steadiness  or 
logic  of  expression.  We  have  spoken  of  the  every- 
day habit  of  contact  among  them,  the  trifling  touch 
that  passes  unheeded  between  young  men  and  girls, 
from  childhood  into  maturity.  This  is  but  a  single 
phase  of  that  diif  useness  of  sex  energy,  which  being 
distributed  through  a  variety  of  channels,  with  the 
American,  nowhere  is  very  profound  or  vital.  The 
constant  comradeship  between  the  two  sexes,  from 
babyhood  throughout  all  life,  makes  for  many  fine 
things;  but  it  does  not  make  for  passion.  And,  as 
though  dimly  they  realize  this,  Americans — both  men 

59 


60  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

and  women — seem  desperately  bent  on  manufactur- 
ing it. 

Hence  their  suggestive  songs,  their  suggestive 
books,  their  crudely  suggestive  plays,  and,  above  all, 
their  recognized  game  of  "teasing,"  in  which  the 
young  girl  uses  every  device  for  plaguing  the  young 
man — to  lead  him  on,  but  never  to  lead  him  too  far. 
Always  suggestion,  never  realization;  as  a  nation 
they  retain  the  adolescent  point  of  view  to  the  end, 
playing  with  sex,  which  they  do  not  understand,  but 
only  vaguely  feel,  yet  about  which  they  have  the 
typically  adolescent  curiosity. 

So  much  for  the  physiological  side.  It  is  not  hard 
to  understand  how  under  such  conditions  natural  ani- 
mal energy  is  dissipated  along  a  hundred  avenues  of 
mere  nerve  excitement  and  satisfaction ;  so  that  when 
it  comes  to  marriage  the  American  man  or  woman  can 
have  no  stored-up  wealth  of  passion  to  bestow,  but 
simply  the  usual  comradeship,  the  usual  contact  in- 
tensified. This  is  all  very  well,  to  begin  with,  but  it  is 
too  slender  a  bond  to  stand  the  strain  of  daily  mar- 
ried life.  Besides,  there  is  the  ingrained  craving  for 
novelty  that  has  been  fed  and  fostered  by  lifelong 
freedom  of  intercourse  until  it  is  become  in  itself  a 
passion  dangerously  strong.  A  few  misunderstand- 
ings, a  serious  quarrel  or  two,  and  the  couple  who  a 
year  ago  swore  to  cleave  to  one  another  till  death  are 
eager  to  part  with  one  another  for  life — and  to  pass 
on  to  something  new. 

But  a  formidable  stumbling-block  confronts 
them:   their  ideal  of  marriage.     Sentiment  comes  to 


IN    REHEARSAL  61 

the  front,  outraged  and  demanding  appeasement. 
American  life  is  grounded  in  sentiment.  The  idea  of 
the  American  man  concerning  the  American  woman, 
the  idea  of  the  woman  concerning  the  man,  is  a  colos- 
sus of  sentiment  in  itself.  She  is  all-pure,  he  is  all- 
chivalrous.  She  would  not  smoke  a  cigarette  (in 
public)  because  he  would  be  horrified;  he  would  not 
confess  to  a  liason  (however  many  it  might  please  him 
to  enjoy) ,  because  she  would  perish  with  shame.  Each 
has  made  it  a  life  business  to  forget  that  the  other  is 
human,  and  to  insist  that  both  are  impeccable.  When, 
therefore,  before  the  secret  tribunal  of  matrimony, 
this  illusion  is  condemned  to  death,  what  is  to  be 
done? 

Nothing  that  could  reflect  on  the  innocence  of  the 
woman,  or  the  blamelessness  of  the  man.  In  other 
words,  the  public  ideal  still  must  be  upheld.  With 
which  the  public  firmly  agrees;  and,  always  willing 
to  be  hoodwinked  and  to  hoodwink  itself,  makes  a 
neat  series  of  laws  whereby  men  and  women  may  en- 
joy unlimited  license  and  still  remain  irreproachable. 
Thus  the  difficulty  is  solved,  sentiment  is  satisfied,  and 
chaos  mounts  the  throne. 

I  am  always  extremely  interested  in  the  American 
disgust  at  the  Continental  marriage  system.  Here 
the  inveterate  sentimentalism  of  the  nation  comes  out 
most  decided  and  clear.  In  the  first  place,  they  say, 
the  European  has  no  respect  for  women;  he  orders 
them  about,  or  betrays  them,  with  equal  coolness  and 
cruelty.  He  is  mercenary  to  the  last  degree  in  the 
matter  of  the  dot,  but  himself  after  marriage  makes 


62  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

no  effort  to  provide  his  wife  with  more  than  pin- 
money.  After  the  honeymoon  she  becomes  his  house- 
keeper and  the  mother  of  his  children ;  while  he  spends 
her  dowry  on  a  succession  of  mistresses  and  immoral 
amusements  elsewhere. 

All  of  which,  as  generalization,  is  true.  The  com- 
plementary series  of  facts,  however,  the  American 
complacently  ignores.  He  knows  nothing,  for  in- 
stance, of  the  European  attitude  to  the  young  girl — 
how  could  he  ?  His  own  sisters  and  daughters  are  pre- 
sented, even  before  they  are  in  long  skirts,  as  objects 
of  intimacy  and  flirtation;  harmless  flirtation,  admit- 
ted, yet  scarcely  the  thing  to  produce  reverence  for 
the  recipient.  Instead  she  is  given  a  free-and-easy 
consideration,  which  to  the  European  is  appalling. 
The  latter  may  be  a  rake  and  a  dehauclie,  but  he  has 
one  religion  ingrained  and  unimpeachable:  in  the 
presence  of  a  young  girl  he  is  before  an  altar.  And 
throughout  all  European  life  the  young  girl  is  ac- 
corded a  delicate  dignity  impossible  to  her  less  shel- 
tered American  cousin. 

What  good  does  that  do  her,  asks  the  downright 
American,  if  the  minute  she  marries  she  becomes  a 
slave?  On  the  contrary,  she  gains  her  liberty,  where 
the  American  girl  (in  her  own  opinion  at  least)  loses 
hers;  but  even  if  she  did  not  it  is  a  matter  open  to 
dispute  as  to  which  is  better  ofl*  in  any  case:  the 
woman  who  is  a  slave,  or  the  woman  who  is  master? 
For  contentment  and  serenity,  one  must  give  the 
palm  to  the  European.  She  brings  her  husband 
money  instead  of  marrying  him  for  his;  she  stands 


IN    REHEARSAL  63 

over  herself  and  her  expenditure,  rather  than  over 
him  and  his  check-hook;  and  she  tends  her  house  and 
bears  children,  rather  than  roams  the  world  in  search 
of  pleasure.    Yet  she  is  happy. 

She  may  be  deceived  by  her  husband;  if  so,  she 
is  deceived  far  without  the  confines  of  her  own  home. 
Within  her  home,  as  mother  of  her  husband's  chil- 
dren, she  is  impregnable.  She  may  be  betrayed,  but 
she  is  never  vulgarized;  her  affairs  are  not  dragged 
through  the  divorce  court,  or  jaunted  about  the  col- 
umns of  a  yellow  press.  Whatever  she  may  not  be  to 
the  man  whom  she  has  married,  she  is  once  and  for- 
ever the  woman  with  whom  he  shares  his  name,  and 
to  whom  he  must  give  his  unconditional  respect — or 
kill  her.  She  has  so  much,  sure  and  inviolate,  to 
stand  on. 

The  American  woman  has  nothing  sure.  In  a 
land  where  all  things  change  with  the  sun,  die  and  are 
shoved  along  breathlessly  to  make  room  for  new,  she 
is  lost  in  the  general  confusion.  Today  she  is  Mrs. 
Smith,  tomorrow — by  her  own  wish,  or  Mr.  Smith's, 
or  both — she  is  Mrs.  Jones,  six  months  later  she  is 
Mrs.  Somebody  Else ;  and  the  conversation,  which  in- 
cludes "your  children,"  "my  children,"  and  "our  chil- 
dren," is  not  a  joke  in  America:  it  is  an  everyday  fact 
— for  the  children  themselves  a  tragedy. 

Young  people  grow  up  among  such  conditions 
with  a  flippant — even  a  horrible — idea  of  marriage. 
They  look  upon  it,  naturally,  as  an  expedient ;  some- 
thing temporarily  good,  to  be  entered  upon  as  such, 
and  without  any  profound  thought  for  the  future. 


64  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

"She  married  very  well,"  means  she  married  dollars, 
or  position,  or  a  title;  in  the  person  of  what,  it  does 
not  matter.  If  she  is  dissatisfied  with  her  bargain,  she 
always  make  an  exchange,  and  no  one  will  think  any 
the  worse  of  her.  For,  while  Americans  are  horror- 
stricken  at  the  idea  of  a  woman's  having  a  lover 
without  the  law,  within  the  law  she  may  have  as  many 
as  she  likes,  and  take  public  sympathy  and  approval 
along  with  her;  so  long  as  the  farce  of  her  'purity  is 
carried  out,  these  sentimentalists  (whom  Meredith 
calls,  in  general,  "self -worshippers" )  smile  complais- 
ance. 

It  is  simply  another  light  on  the  prevailing  super- 
ficiality that  controls  them,  for  that  a  woman  shall  be 
faithful — where  she  has  placed  her  affections  of  what- 
ever sort — they  neither  demand  nor  appear  to  think 
of  at  all.  She  may  ruin  her  husband  buying  chiffons, 
or  maintaining  an  establishment  beyond  his  means, 
and  not  a  word  of  blame  is  attached  to  her;  on  the 
contrary,  when  the  husband  goes  bankrupt,  it  is  he 
who  is  outcast,  while  everyone  speaks  pitifully  of  "his 
poor  wife."  The  only  allegiance  expected  of  the 
woman  is  the  mere  allegiance  of  the  body;  and  this 
in  the  American  woman  is  no  virtue,  for  she  has  little 
or  no  passion  to  tempt  her  to  bodily  sin. 

Rather,  as  we  have  seen,  she  is  a  highly  nervous 
organism,  demanding  nerve  food  in  the  shape  of  sen- 
sation— constant  and  varied.  Emotionally,  she  is  a 
sort  of  psychic  vampire,  always  athirst  for  victims  to 
her  vanity ;  experience  from  which  to  gain  new  knowl- 
edge of  herself.     This  is  true  not  only  of  the  idle 


IN    REHEARSAL  65 

woman  of  society,  but  of  the  best  and  intentionally 
most  sincere.  They  are  wholly  unconscious  of  it,  they 
would  indignantly  refute  it ;  yet  their  very  system  of 
living  proves  it :  throughout  all  classes  the  American 
woman,  in  the  majority,  is  sufficient  unto  herself,  and 
— no  matter  in  how  noble  a  spirit — self-absorbed. 

If  she  is  happily  married,  she  loves  her  husband; 
but  why?  Because  he  harmoniously  complements  the 
nature  she  is  bent  on  developing.  In  like  fashion 
she  loves  her  children — do  they  not  contribute  a  tre- 
mendous portion  towards  the  perfect  womanhood  she 
ardently  desires?  And  this  is  not  saying  that  the 
finer  type  of  American  woman  is  not  a  devoted  mother 
and  wife ;  it  is  giving  the  deep,  unconscious  motive  of 
her  devotion. 

But  take  the  finer  type  that  is  not  married,  that 
remains  unmarried  voluntarily,  and  by  the  thousands. 
Take  the  Cynthia  Brands,  for  example.  Americans 
say  they  stay  single  because  "they  have  too  good  a 
time,"  and  this  is  literally  true.  Why  should  they 
marry  when  they  can  compass  of  themselves  the  things 
women  generally  marry  for — secure  position  and  a 
comfortable  home?  Why,  except  for  overpowering 
love  of  some  particular  man?  This  the  Cynthia 
Brands — i.  e.,  women  independently  successful — are 
seldom  apt  to  experience.  All  their  energy  is  trained 
upon  themselves  and  their  ambition;  and  that  is  never 
satisfied,  but  pushes  on  and  on,  absorbing  emotion — 
every  sort  of  force  in  the  woman — till  her  passion 
becomes    completely   subjective,    and   marriage   has 


66  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

nothing  to  oiFer  her  save  the  children  she  wiUingly 
renounces. 

Thus  there  is  in  America  almost  a  third  sex :  a  sex 
of  superwomen,  in  whom  mentality  triumphs  to  the 
sacrifice  of  the  normal  female.  One  cannot  say  that 
this  side  of  the  generally  admirable  "self-made" 
woman  is  appealing.  It  is  rather  hard,  and  leads  one 
to  speculate  as  to  whether  the  victorious  bachelor  girl 
of  to-day  is  on  the  whole  more  attractive  or  better  off 
than  the  despised  spinster  of  yesterday.  Of  course, 
she  has  raised  and  strengthened  the  position  of 
women,  economically  speaking ;  socially,  too.  But  one 
cannot  but  think  that  she  is  after  all  only  a  partially 
finished  superwoman,  and  that  the  ultimate  creature 
will  have  more  of  sweetness  and  strong  tenderness 
than  one  sees  in  the  determined,  rather  rigid  faces 
of  the  army  of  New  York  business  women  of  the 
present. 

As  for  the  New  York  man  (whom  one  is  forever 
slighting  because  his  role  is  so  inconspicuous) ,  we  have 
a  type  much  less  complex — quite  the  simplest  type  of 
normal  male,  in  fact.  The  average  New  Yorker 
(that  is,  the  New  Yorker  of  the  upper  middle  class) 
is  a  hard-working,  obvious  soul,  of  obvious  qualities 
and  obvious  flaws.  His  raison  d'etre  is  to  provide 
prodigally  for  his  wife  and  children ;  to  which  end  he 
steals  out  of  the  house  in  the  morning  before  the  rest 
are  awake,  and  returns  late  in  the  evening,  hurriedly 
to  dress  and  accompany  Madame  to  some  smart  res- 
taurant and  the  play. 

Here,  as  at  the  opera  or  fashionable  reception,  his 


IN    REHEARSAL  67 

duty  is  simply  that  of  background  to  the  elaborate 
gorgeousness  and  inveterate  animation  of  his  women- 
folk. Indeed,  throughout  all  their  activities  the 
American  husband  and  wife  seem  curiously  irrelevant 
to  one  another :  they  work  as  a  tandem,  not  as  a  team. 
And  there  is  no  question  as  to  who  goes  first.  The 
wife  indicates  the  route ;  the  husband  does  his  best  to 
keep  up  to  her.  If  he  cannot  do  it,  no  matter  what 
his  other  excellences,  he  is  a  failure.  He  himself  is 
convinced  of  it,  hence  his  tense  expression  of  straining 
every  nerve  toward  some  gigantic  end  that  usually  he 
is  just  able  to  compass. 

The  man  who  cannot  support  a  woman,  not  in 
reasonable  comfort,  but  in  the  luxury  she  expects, 
thinks  he  has  no  right  to  her.  The  woman  has  taught 
him  to  think  it.  Thus  a  young  friend  of  mine,  who 
on  twenty-five  thousand  a  year  had  been  engaged  to  a 
charming  New  York  girl,  told  me,  simply,  that  of 
course  when  his  income  was  reduced  to  five  thousand 
he  could  not  marry  her. 

I  asked  what  the  girl  thought  about  it.  "Oh,  she's 
a  trump,"  he  said  enthusiastically;  "she  wouldn't 
throw  me  over  because  I've  lost  my  money.  But  of 
course  she  sees  it's  impossible.  We  couldn't  go  the 
pace." 

From  which  ingenuous  confession  we  rightly 
gather  that  "the  pace"  comes  first  with  both  husband 
and  wife,  in  New  York;  the  person  of  one  another 
second,  if  it  counts  at  all.  Their  great  bond  of  union 
is  the  building  up  of  certain  material  circumstances 
both  covet;  their  home  life,  their  friends,  their  in- 


68  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

stinctive  and  lavish  hospitality — everything  is  regu- 
lated according  to  this.  Instead  of  a  peaceful  even- 
ing in  their  own  drawing-room,  after  the  man's  stren- 
uous day  at  the  office,  the  woman's  no  less  strenuous 
day  at  bridge  and  the  dressmaker's,  they  must  rush 
into  evening  clothes  and  hasten  to  show  themselves 
where  they  should  be  seen.  Other  people's  pleasures 
become  to  the  American  couple  stern  duties;  to  be 
feverishly  followed,  if  it  helps  them  in  ever  so  little 
toward  their  goal. 

Thus  we  hear  Mrs.  Grey  say  to  George:  "Don't 
forget  we're  dining  with  the  Fred  Baynes'  to-night. 
Be  home  early." 

"The  deuce  we  are!"  says  George.  "I  wanted  to 
go  to  the  club.     I  detest  Bayne,  anyhow." 

"Yes,  but  he's  President  of  the  Security  Trust. 
If  you  want  to  get  their  new  contract,  you'd  best 
dine,  and  get  him  to  promise  you.  I've  already 
lunched  her,  so  the  ground's  prepared." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  growls  George;  "of  course  you're 
right.     I'll  be  on  hand." 

Result :  They  cement  a  friendship  with  two  odious 
people  whom  they  are  afterward  obliged  to  invite ;  but 
George  gets  the  contract,  and  twenty  thousand  goes 
down  to  the  family  bank  account.  This  spirit  is  by 
no  means  unknown  in  English  and  Continental  life, 
but  certainly  it  has  its  origin  and  prime  exponents 
in  America.  No  other  people  finds  money  sufficient 
exchange  for  perpetual  boredom. 

The  European  goes  where  he  is  amused,  with 
friends  who  interest  him.    He  dares.    The  American 


IN    REHEARSAL  69 

does  not;  having  always  to  prove  that  he  can  afford 
to  be  in  certain  places,  that  he  is  of  sufficient  im- 
portance to  be  with  certain  people.  America  is  full 
of  ruinously  expensive  resorts  that  have  sprung  up  in 
response  to  this  craving  for  self-advertisement  on  the 
part  of  her  "rising"  sons  and  daughters.  Squads  of 
newspaper  reporters  go  with  them,  and  the  nation  is 
kept  accurately  informed  to  the  minute  as  to  what 
Mrs.  Spender  wore  this  morning  at  Palm  Beach,  Mrs. 
Haveall  at  Newport,  Mrs.  Dash  at  Hot  Springs; 
also  how  many  horses,  motor  cars,  yachts  and  petty 
paraphernalia  Charles  Spender,  Jimmy  Haveall,  and 
Henry  Dash  are  carrying  about.  The  credit  of  these 
men,  together  often  with  the  credit  of  large  business 
firms,  depends  on  the  show  they  can  afford  to  make, 
and  the  jewels  their  wives  wear. 

But  I  believe  that  no  man  has  a  duller  life  than 
the  rich  man — or  the  moderately  rich  man  of  New 
York.  He  is  generally  the  victim  of  dyspepsia — 
from  too  rich  food  taken  in  too  great  a  hurry;  he  is 
always  the  victim  of  the  office.  Not  even  after  he  has 
retired,  to  spend  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  dreary 
luxury  between  his  clubs  and  Continental  watering 
places,  does  the  office  habit  cease  to  torment  him. 
Once  and  forever,  it  has  murdered  the  enjoyment  of 
leisure  and  annihilated  pleasure  in  peace. 

Being  naturally  heavy-minded  on  all  subjects  ex- 
cept business,  the  American  man  with  time  on  his 
hands  is  in  a  pitiable  plight.  I  have  met  some  of  these 
poor  gentlemen,  wandering  helplessly  about  the  world 
with  their  major-general  wives,  and  I  must  say  they 


70  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

are  among  the  most  pathetic  of  married  men.  They 
hibernate  in  hotel  lounges,  smoking  their  enormous 
cigars  and  devouring  their  two-weeks-old  New  York 
newspapers ;  or,  when  they  get  the  chance,  monologu- 
ing  by  the  hour  on  their  past  master  strokes  in  the 
land  where  "things  hum."  Sometimes  in  self-defence 
against  the  wife's  frocks  and  French  hats,  they  have 
a  hobby:  ivories,  or  old  silver — something  eminently 
respectable.  If  so,  they  are  apt  to  be  laborious  about 
it,  as  they  are  about  all  culture  which  they  graft  on 
themselves,  or  have  grafted  on  them.  Sometimes 
they  turn  their  attention  to  sport;  but  the  real  sport 
of  the  American,  man  and  woman,  is  climbing.  It  is 
born  in  them,  and  they  never  actually  give  it  up  until 
they  die. 

Meanwhile  the  couple  who  have  resisted  divorce 
and  continued  to  climb  together  turn  anxious  eyes  on 
the  upward  advance  of  their  children.  If  the  latter 
make  a  false  step,  mother  with  her  trained  wit  must 
repair  it ;  father  must  foot  the  bill.  No  more  extrava- 
gantly indulgent  parent  exists  than  the  American 
parent  who  himself  has  had  to  make  his  own  way. 
His  children  are  monarchs,  weightedly  crowned  with 
luxuries  they  do  not  appreciate;  and  for  them  he 
slaves  till  death  or  nervous  prostration  lays  him  low. 
One  wonders  when  the  nation  that  has  lost  its  head 
over  the  American  girl  will  awake  to  the  discovery 
of  the  American  father.  For  the  present  he  is  a 
silent,  deprecatory  creature,  toiling  unceasingly  six 
days  of  the  week,  and  on  the  seventh  to  be  found  in 
some  unfrequented  corner  of  the  house,  inundated  by 


IN    REHEARSAL  71 

newspapers,  or  unobtrusively  building  blocks  in  the 
nursery — where  there  is  one. 

As  a  rule,  American  children  own  the  house, 
monopolize  the  conversation  at  meals,  which  almost 
invariably  they  take  with  their  elders — whether  there 
are  guests  or  not,  and  are  generally  as  arrogant  and 
precocious  little  tyrants  as  unlimited  indulgence  and 
admiration  can  make  them.  They  have  been  allowed 
to  see  and  read  everything  their  parents  see  and  read ; 
they  have  been  taken  to  the  theatre  and  about  the 
world,  from  the  time  they  could  walk;  they  have, 
many  of  them,  travelled  abroad,  and  are  ready  to  dis- 
cuss Paris  or  London  with  the  languid  nonchalance 
of  little  old  men  and  women ;  on  the  whole,  these  poor 
spoiled  little  people,  through  no  fault  of  their  own, 
are  about  as  unpleasant  and  unnatural  a  type  as  can 
be  found. 

Instead  of  being  kept  simple  and  unsophisticated 
they  are  early  inculcated  with  the  importance  of 
money  and  the  things  it  can  buy.  American  boys, 
rather  than  vying  with  one  another  in  tennis  or  swim- 
ming vie  with  one  another  in  the  number  of  motor  cars 
they  own  or  sail-boats  or  saddle-horses,  as  the  case 
may  be.  They  would  scorn  the  pony  that  is  the  Eng- 
lish boy's  delight,  but  it  is  true  that  many  young 
Americans  at  the  tender  age  of  twelve  own  their  own 
motors,  which  they  drive  and  discuss  with  the  hlase  air 
of  men  of  the  world.  In  like  fashion  the  little  girls, 
from  the  time  they  can  toddle,  are  consumed  with  the 
idea  of  outdressing  one  another;  and  even  give  box 
parties  and  luncheons — beginning,  almost  before  they 


72  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

are  out  of  the  cradle,  to  imitate  their  mothers  in  am- 
bition and  the  consuming  spirit  of  competition. 

Naturally,  one  is  speaking  of  the  children  of  the 
wealthy,  or  at  least  well  off;  among  the  children  of 
the  working  classes,  whatever  their  grade  of  intelli- 
gence or  education,  we  find  the  same  sturdy  independ- 
ence and  ability  that  characterizes  their  mothers  and 
fathers.  But  all  American  children  are  sophisticated 
• — one  glance  at  a  daily  newspaper  is  enough  to  make 
them  so;  and  they  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  worldly 
wisdom  and  knowledge  of  the  sordid,  which  those  of 
us  who  believe  that  childhood  should  be  ingenuous 
and  gay  find  rather  sad.  The  little  pitchers,  in  this 
case,  have  not  only  big  ears  but  eyes  and  wits  sharp  to 
perceive  the  sorry  things  they  would  naturally  learn 
soon  enough. 

They  are  allowed  to  wander,  unshielded,  among 
the  perplexing  mixed  motives,  the  standards  in  dis- 
array, of  this  theatre  where  life  in  its  myriad  relations 
is  still  in  adjustment.  Like  small  troubled  gnomes 
seeking  light,  they  flit  across  the  hazardous  stage; 
where  their  more  experienced  leaders  have  yet  to  ex- 
tricate order  out  of  a  sea  of  sentimental  hypocrisies, 
inflated  ideals,  and  makeshift  laws. 

American  men  and  women  have  been  at  great 
pains  to  construct  "a  world  not  better  than  the  world 
it  curtains,  only  foolisher."  They  have  obstinately 
refused  to  admit  one  another  as  they  actually  are — 
which,  after  all,  is  a  remarkably  fine  race  of  beings; 
preferring  the  pretty  flimsiness  of  a  house  of  cards 
of  their  own  making  to  the  indestructible  mansion  of 


IN    REHEARSAL  73 

humanity.  When  their  passion  for  inventing  shall 
be  converted  into  an  equally  ardent  passion  for  re- 
flecting— as  it  surely  will  be — they  will  see  their  mis- 
take in  a  trice ;  and,  from  that  time,  they  are  destined 
to  be  not  a  collection  of  finely  tuned  nervous  organ- 
isms, but  a  splendid  race  of  thinking  creatures. 


II 

THE  CURTAIN  RISES 

(Paris) 


ON  THE  GREAT  ARTISTE 

Out  of  the  turmoil  and  struggling  confusion  of 
rehearsal,  to  gaze  on  the  finished  performance  of  the 
great  artiste!  For  in  Paris  we  are  before  the  curtain, 
not  behind  it;  and  few  foreigners,  though  they  may 
adopt  the  city  for  their  own,  and  lovingly  study  it 
for  many  years,  are  granted  more  than  an  occasional 
rare  glimpse  of  its  personality  without  the  stage  be- 
tween. From  that  safe  distance,  Paris  coquets  with 
you,  rails  at  you,  laughs  and  weeps  for  you ;  but  first 
she  has  handed  you  a  programme,  which  informs  you 
that  she  does  the  same  for  all  the  world,  at  a  certain 
hour  each  day,  and  for  a  fixed  price.  And  if  ever  in 
the  ardour  of  your  admiration  you  show  signs  of 
forgetting,  of  seeking  her  personal  favour  by  a  rash 
gesture  or  smile,  she  points  you  imperiously  to  the 
barricade  of  the  footlights — or  vanishes  completely, 
in  the  haughtiness  of  her  ire. 

Therefore,  the  tourist  will  tell  you,  Paris  is  not 
satisfactory.  Because  to  his  greedy  curiosity  she  does 
not  open  her  soul  as  she  does  the  gates  of  her  art 
treasures  and  museums,  he  pronounces  her  shallow, 
mercenary,  heartless,  even  wicked.    As  her  frankness 

77 


78  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

in  some  things  is  foreign  to  his  hypocrisy,  as  her 
complex  unmorality  resists  his  facile  analysis,  he 
grasps  what  he  can  of  her;  and  goes  away  annoyed. 
Really  to  know  Paris  is  to  offer  in  advance  a  store 
of  tolerance  for  her  inconsistencies,  patience  for  her 
whims,  and  the  sincere  desire  to  learn  finally  to  see  be- 
hind her  mask — not  to  snatch  it  rudely  from  her  face. 

But  this  cannot  be  done  in  the  curt  fortnight 
which  generally  limits  the  casual  visitor's  acquaint- 
ance. Months  and  years  must  be  spent,  if  true 
knowledge  of  the  City  of  Light  is  to  be  won.  We 
can  only,  in  our  brief  survey  of  its  more  significant 
phases,  indicate  a  guide  to  further  study  of  a  place 
and  people  well  worth  a  wider  scrutiny. 

The  most  prejudiced  will  not  deny  that  Paris  is 
beautiful ;  or  that  there  is  about  her  streets  and  broad, 
tree-lined  avenues  a  graciousness  at  once  dignified 
and  gay.  Stand,  as  the  ordinary  tourist  does  on  his 
first  day,  in  the  flowering  square  before  the  Louvre ; 
in  the  foreground  are  the  fountains  and  bright  tulip- 
bordered  paths  of  the  Tuileries — here  a  glint  of  gold, 
there  a  soft  flash  of  marble  statuary,  shining  through 
the  trees ;  in  the  centre  the  round  lake  where  the  chil- 
dren sail  their  boats.  Beyond  spreads  the  wide  sweep 
of  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  with  its  obelisk  of  terrible 
significance,  its  larger  fountains  throwing  brilliant 
jets  of  spray;  and  then  the  trailing,  upward  vista  of 
the  Champs  Elysees  to  the  great  triumphal  Arch: 
yes,  even  to  the  most  indifferent,  Paris  is  beautiful. 

To  the  subtler  of  appreciation,  she  is  more  than 
beautiful:  she  is  impressive.    For  behind  the  studied 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  79 

elegance  of  architecture,  the  elaborate  simplicity  of 
gardens,  the  carefully  lavish  use  of  sculpture  and 
delicate  spray,  is  visible  the  imagination  of  a  race  of 
passionate  creators — the  imagination,  throughout,  of 
the  great  artist.  One  meets  it  at  every  turn  and 
corner,  down  dim  passageways,  up  steep  hills,  across 
bridges,  along  sinuous  quays :  the  masterhand  and  its 
"infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains."  And  so  marvel- 
lously do  its  manifestations  of  many  periods  through 
many  ages  combine  to  enhance  one  another  that 
one  is  convinced  that  the  genius  of  Paris  has  been 
perennial;  that  St.  Genevieve,  her  godmother,  be- 
stowed it  as  an  immortal  gift  when  the  city  was  born. 

From  earliest  days  every  man  seems  to  have 
caught  the  spirit  of  the  man  who  came  before,  and 
to  have  perpetuated  it;  by  adding  his  own  distinctive 
yet  always  harmonious  contribution  to  the  gradual 
development  of  the  whole.  One  built  a  stately  ave- 
nue; another  erected  a  church  at  the  end;  a  third 
added  a  garden  on  the  other  side  of  the  church,  and 
terraces  leading  up  to  it;  a  fourth  and  fifth  cut 
streets  that  should  give  from  the  remaining  two  sides 
into  other  flowery  squares  with  their  fine  edifices. 
And  so  from  every  viewpoint,  and  from  every  part 
of  the  entire  city,  today  we  have  an  unbroken  series 
of  vistas — each  one  different  and  more  charming 
than  the  last. 

History  has  lent  its  hand  to  the  process,  too;  and 
romance — it  is  not  an  insipid  chain  of  flowerbeds  we 
have  to  follow,  but  the  holy  warriors  of  Saint  Louis, 
the  roistering  braves  of  Henry  the  Great,  the  gallant 


80  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

Bourbons,  the  ill-starred  Bonapartes.  These  as  they 
passed  have  left  their  monuments;  it  may  be  only  in 
a  crumbling  old  chapel  or  ruined  tower,  but  there 
they  are:  eloquent  of  days  that  are  dead,  of  a  spirit 
that  lives  forever  staunch  in  the  heart  of  the  fervent 
French  people. 

It  comes  over  one  overwhelmingly  sometimes,  in 
the  midst  of  the  careless  gaiety  of  the  modern  city: 
the  old,  ever-burning  spirit  of  rebellion  and  savage 
strife  that  underlies  it  all ;  and  that  can  spring  to  the 
surface  now  on  certain  memorable  days,  with  a  ve- 
hemence that  is  terrifying.  Look  across  the  Pont 
Alexandre,  at  the  serene  gold  dome  of  the  Invalides, 
surrounded  by  its  sleepy  barracks.  Suddenly  you  are 
in  the  fires  and  awful  slaughter  of  Napoleon's  wars. 
The  flower  of  France  is  being  pitilessly  cut  down  for 
the  lust  of  one  man's  ambition;  and  when  that  is 
spent,  and  the  wail  of  the  widowed  country  pierces 
heaven  with  its  desolation,  a  costly  asylum  is  built  for 
the  handful  of  soldiers  who  are  left — and  the  great 
Emperor  has  done  his  duty ! 

Or  you  are  walking  through  the  Cite,  past  the 
court  of  the  Palais  de  Justice.  You  glance  in,  care- 
lessly— memory  rushes  upon  you — and  the  court 
flows  with  blood,  "so  that  men  waded  through  it,  up 
to  the  knees !"  In  the  tiny  stone-walled  room  yonder, 
Marie  Antoinette  sits  disdainfully  composed  before 
her  keepers ;  though  her  face  is  white  with  the  sounds 
she  hears,  as  her  friends  and  followers  are  led  out  to 
swell  that  hideous  river  of  blood. 

A  pretty,  artificial  city,  Paris ;  good  for  shopping. 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  81 

and  naughty  amusements,  now  and  then.  History? 
Oh  yes,  of  course ;  but  all  that's  so  dry  and  uninspir- 
ing, and  besides  it  happened  so  long  ago. 

Did  it?  In  your  stroll  along  the  Rue  Royale, 
among  the  jewellers'  and  milliners'  shops  and  Max- 
im's, glance  up  at  the  Madeleine,  down  at  the  obelisk 
in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  Little  over  a  hundred 
j^ears  ago,  this  was  the  brief  distance  between  life  and 
death  for  those  who  one  minute  were  dancing  in  the 
"Temple  of  Victory,"  the  next  were  laying  their 
heads  upon  the  block  of  the  guillotine.  Can  you  see, 
beyond  the  shadowy  grey  pillars  of  the  Temple,  that 
brilliant  circling  throng  within?  The  reckless-laugh- 
ing ballet  girl  in  her  shrine  as  "Goddess,"  her  wor- 
shippers treading  their  wild  measures  among  the 
candles  and  crucifixes  and  holy  images,  as  though 
they  are  pursued?  Look — a  grim  presence  is  at  the 
door.  He  enters,  lays  a  heavy  hand  upon  the  shoulder 
of  a  young  and  beautiful  dancer.  She  looks  into  his 
face,  and  smiles.  The  music  never  stops,  but  goes 
more  madly  on;  as  the  one  demanded  makes  a  low 
reverence^  then  rising,  throws  a  kiss  over  her  shoulder 
to  her  comrades  who  in  turn  salute  her;  calls  a  gay 
"Adieu!"  and  with  the  smile  still  terrible  upon  her 
lips — is  gone. 

Ah,  but  the  French  are  different  now,  you  say. 
Those  were  the  aristocrats,  the  vieille  noblesse;  these 
modern  Republicans  are  of  another  breed.  And  yet 
the  same  blood  flows  in  their  veins,  the  same  scornful 
courage  animates  them — who,  for  example,  leads  the 
world  in  aviation? — and  on  days  like  the  fourteenth 


82  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

of  July  (the  anniversary  of  the  storming  of  the 
Bastille),  the  common  people  at  least  show  a  patriot- 
ism no  less  fiery  if  less  ferocious  than  they  showed  in 
1789.    Let  us  see  if  they  are  so  diiFerent  after  all. 

The  first  charge  against  the  French  invariably  is 
that  of  artificiality.  Anglo-Saxons  admit  them  to  be 
charming,  of  a  delightful  wit  and  keen  intelligence; 
but,  they  immediately  add,  how  deep  does  it  go? 
Superficially,  the  Parisian  is  vastly  agreeable;  cour- 
teous to  the  point  of  extravagance,  an  accomplished 
conversationalist,  even  now  and  then  with  a  flash  of 
the  profound.  Probe  him,  and  what  do  you  find? 
A  cynical,  world-weary  degenerate,  who  will  laugh 
at  you  when  your  back  is  turned,  and  make  love  to 
your  wife  before  your  very  eyes ! 

And  why  not?  You  should  appreciate  the  com- 
pliment to  your  good  taste.  It  is  when  he  begins  to 
make  love  behind  one's  back  that  one  must  beware 
of  one's  French  friend;  for  he  is  a  finished  artist  at 
the  performance,  and  women  know  it,  and  are  pre- 
pared in  advance  to  be  subdued.  He  is  by  no  means 
a  degenerate,  however,  the  average  Frenchman;  he 
has  to  work  too  hard,  and  besides  he  has  not  the 
money  degeneracy  costs.  He  may  have  his  "ijetite 
amie"  generally  he  has ;  but  quite  as  generally  she  is 
a  wholesome,  well-behaved  little  person, — a  dress- 
maker in  a  small  way,  or  vendeuse  in  a  shop — content 
to  drink  a  bock  with  him  in  the  evening,  at  their  fa- 
vourite cafe,  and  on  Sundays  to  hang  on  his  arm  dur- 
ing their  excursion  to  St.  Germain  or  Meudon.  Just 
as  a  very  small  percentage  of  New  Yorkers  are  those 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  83 

who  dwell  in  Wall  Street  and  corner  stocks,  so  a  very- 
small  percentage  of  Parisians  are  those  who  feed 
louis  to  night  restaurants  and  carouse  till  morning 
with  riotous  demi-mondaines. 

It  is  a  platitude  that  foreigners  are  the  ones  who 
support  the  immoral  resorts  of  Paris;  yet  no  for- 
eigner seems  to  care  to  remember  the  platitude.  The 
best  way  to  convince  oneself  of  it  forever  is  to  visit 
a  series  of  these  places,  and  take  honest  note  of  their 
personnel.  The  employes  will  be  found  to  be 
French ;  but  ninety-eight  per  cent,  of  the  patrons  are 
English,  German,  Italian,  Spanish,  and  North  and 
South  American.  The  retort  is  made  that  neverthe- 
less the  Parisians  started  such  establishments  in  the 
first  place.  They  did;  but  only  after  the  stranger 
had  brought  his  crude  sensuality  to  their  variety  the- 
atres and  night  cafes,  stripping  the  first  of  their 
racy  wit,  the  second  of  their  rollicking  bonhomie, 
taking  note  only  of  the  license  underlying  both — and 
blatantly  revelling  in  it.  Then  it  was  that  the  ever- 
alert  commercial  sense  of  the  Frenchman  awoke  to 
a  new  method  of  making  money  out  of  foreigners; 
and  the  vulgar  night-restaurant  of  today  had  its  be- 
ginning. 

But  not  only  in  the  matter  of  degeneracy  is  the 
common  analysis  of  the  Parisian  open  to  refutation; 
his  inveterate  cynicism  also  comes  up  for  doubt.  The 
attitude  that  calls  forth  this  mistaken  conclusion  on 
the  part  of  those  not  well  acquainted  with  French 
character  is  more  or  less  the  attitude  of  every  in- 
stinctively  dramatic  nature:   a  kind  of  impersonal 


84  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

detachment,  which  causes  the  individual  to  appreciate 
situations  and  events  first  as  bits  of  drama,  seen  in 
their  relation  to  himself.  Thus,  during  the  recent 
scandal  of  the  motor  bandits,  I  have  heard  policemen 
laugh  heartily  at  some  clever  trick  of  evasion  on  the 
part  of  the  criminals;  only  to  see  them  turn  purple 
with  rage  the  next  minute,  on  realizing  the  insult  to 
their  own  intelligence. 

A  better  example  is  the  story  of  the  little  mid- 
inette  who,  though  starving,  would  not  yield  to  her 
former  patron  (desirous  also  of  being  her  lover), 
and  whom  the  latter  shot  through  the  heart  as  she  was 
hurrying  along  the  Quai  Passy  late  at  night.  "Quel 
phenomene" !  she  exclaimed,  with  a  faint  shrug,  as 
her  life  ebbed  away  in  the  corner  brasserie;  "to  be 
shot,  while  on  the  way  to  drown  oneself — c'est  inoiii"! 
The  next  moment  she  was  dead.  And  all  she  had  to 
say  was,  "what  a  phenomenon — it's  unheard  of!" 

Is  this  cynicism?  Or  is  it  not  rather  the  character- 
istic impersonality  of  the  histrionic  temper,  which 
causes  the  artist,  even  in  death,  to  gaze  at  herself  and 
at  the  scene,  as  it  were,  from  the  critical  vantage  of 
the  wings?  And  the  light  shiTig — which  so  often 
grounds  the  idea  of  heartlessness,  or  simply  of  shal- 
low frivolity,  in  the  judgment  of  the  stranger — look 
closer,  and  you  will  see  it  hiding  a  brave  stoicism  that 
this  race  of  born  actors  makes  every  effort  to  conceal. 
The  French  throughout  embody  so  complex  a  com- 
bination of  Latin  ardour.  Spartan  endurance,  and 
Greek  ideality  as  to  render  them  extremely  difficult 
of  any  but  the  most  superficial  comprehension.    They 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  85 

laugh  at  things  that  make  other  people  shudder; 
they  take  fire  at  things  that  leave  other  people  cold; 
they  burn  with  a  white  flame  for  beauties  other  peo- 
ple never  see.  As  a  great  English  writer  has  said, 
"below  your  level,  they're  above  it: — and  a  paradox 
is  at  home  with  them!" 

But  I  do  not  think  that  they  are  always  ridiculing 
the  foreigner,  when  the  latter  is  uncomfortably 
conscious  of  their  smiling  glance  upon  him.  There 
are  travelling  types  at  whom  everyone  laughs,  and 
these  delight  the  Frenchman's  keen  humour;  but  the 
ordinary  stranger  has  become  so  commonplace  to 
Paris  that,  unless  he  or  she  is  especially  distinguished, 
no  one  takes  any  notice.  Here,  however,  we  have  in 
a  nutshell  the  reason  for  that  smile  that  sometimes 
irritates  the  foreigner:  it  is  often  a  smile  of  pure 
admiration.  The  great  artist's  eye  knows  no  dis- 
tinction of  nationality  or  an  iota  of  provincial  prej- 
udice. When  it  lights  upon  ugliness,  it  is  disgusted 
— or  amused,  if  the  ugliness  has  a  touch  of  the  comic; 
when,  on  the  other  hand,  it  lights  upon  beauty — and 
how  instant  it  is  to  spy  out  the  most  obscure  trait  of 
this — enthusiasm  is  kindled,  regardless  of  kind  or 
race,  and  the  vif  French  features  break  into  a  smile 
of  pleased  appreciation.  Here,  he  would  say,  is  some- 
one who  contributes  to  the  scene;  someone  who  helps 
to  make,  not  mar,  the  radiant  ensemble  we  are  striv- 
ing for. 

Paris,  as  no  other  city  in  the  world,  offers  a  play- 
house of  brilliant  and  charming  mis e- en- scene ;  and 
gives  the  visitor  subtly  to  understand  that  she  expects 


86  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

him  to  live  up  to  it.  Otherwise  she  has  no  interest  in 
him.  For  the  well-tailored  Englishman,  the  striking 
Americaine,  for  anyone  and  everyone  who  can  claim 
title  to  that  supreme  quality,  chic,  Paris  is  ready  to 
open  her  arms  and  cry  kinship.  Those  whom  she 
favours,  however,  are  held  strictly  to  the  mark  of  her 
fine  standard  of  the  exquisite;  and  if  they  falter 
— oblivion. 

"I  am  never  in  Paris  two  hours,"  said  an  Amer- 
ican friend  of  mine,  "before  I  begin  to  perk  and 
prink,  and  furbish  up  everything  I  have.  One  feels 
that  each  man  and  woman  in  the  street  knows  the 
very  buttons  of  one's  gloves,  and  quality  of  one's 
stockings;  and  that  every  detail  of  one's  costume 
must  be  right."  Many  people  have  voiced  the  same 
impression:  as  of  being  consciously  and  constantly 
"on  view" — before  spectators  keenly  critical.  The 
curtain  seems  to  rise  on  oneself  alone  in  the  centre 
of  the  stage,  and  never  to  go  down  until  the  last 
pair  of  those  appraising  eyes  has  passed  on. 

It  is  a  very  different  appraisement,  however,  from 
the  "inventory  stare"  of  Fifth  Avenue.  Here,  not 
money  value  but  beauty  of  line — blend  of  colour, 
grace,  verve — is  the  criterion.  And  the  modestly 
gowned  little  midinette  receives  as  many  admiring 
glances  as  the  gorgeous  demi-mondaine,  if  only  she 
has  contrived  an  original  cut  to  her  frock,  or  tied  a 
clever,  new  kind  of  bow  to  her  hat.  Novelty,  novelty, 
is  the  cry  of  the  exacting  artiste;  and  who  obeys 
wins  approval — who  has  exhausted  imagination  is 
laid  upon  the  shelf. 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  87 

But,  again,  this  is  not  the  shifting,  impermanent 
temper  of  Madame  New  York;  it  is  the  fickle  varia- 
bihty  of  the  great  artist,  exercising  her  eternal  pre- 
rogative: caprice.  She  accepts  a  fashion  one  week, 
discards  it  the  next  for  one  newer;  throws  that  aside 
two  days  later,  and  demands  to  know  where  every- 
one's ideas  have  gone.  It  is  not  that  she  is  pettish, 
but  simply  that  she  is  used  to  being  slaved  for,  and 
to  being  pleased — by  something  different,  something 
more  charming  every  hour.  Infinite  pains  are  taken 
to  produce  the  merest  trifle  she  may  fancy.  Look 
from  your  window  into  the  rows  of  windows  up  and 
down  the  street,  or  that  line  your  court:  everywhere 
people  are  sewing,  fitting  minute  bits  of  delicate 
stuffs  into  a  pattern,  threading  tiny  pearls  to  make 
a  border,  straining  their  eyes  in  dark  work-rooms, — 
toiling  indefatigably — to  create  some  fragile,  lovely 
thing  that  will  be  snatched  up,  worn  once  or  twice, 
and  tossed  aside,  forgotten  for  the  rest  of  time. 

Yet  no  one  of  the  workers  seems  to  grow  im- 
patient or  disheartened  over  this;  the  faces  bent  ab- 
sorbedly  over  their  tasks  are  bright  with  interest, 
alert  and  full  of  eagerness  to  make  something  that 
will  captivate  the  difficult  mistress,  if  only  for  an 
hour.  They  may  never  see  her — when  she  comes  to 
inspect  their  handiwork,  they  are  shut  behind  a  dingy 
door;  at  best,  they  may  only  catch  a  glimpse  of  her 
as  she  enters  her  carriage,  or  sweeps  past  them  out- 
side some  brilliant  theatre  of  her  pleasure.  But  one 
cries  to  another:  "She's  wearing  my  fichu!"  The 
other  cries  back:     "And  I  draped  her  skirt!"     And 


88  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

supreme  contentment  illumines  each  face,  for  each  has 
helped  towards  the  goddess's  perfection — and  they 
are  satisfied. 

As  I  heard  one  unimportant  little  couturiere  re- 
mark, "Dieu  merci,  in  Paris  we  all  are  artists !"  And 
so  they  all  are  responsible  for  the  finished  success  of 
the  star.  One  cannot  help  contrasting  this  ideal  that 
animates  the  most  insignificant  of  them — the  ideal  of 
sheer  beauty,  towards  which  they  passionately  toil  to 
attain — with  the  stolid  "what-do-I-get-out-of-it"  atti- 
tude of  the  Anglo-Saxon  artisan.  French  working 
people  are  poorly  paid,  they  have  little  joy  in  life  be- 
yond the  joy  of  what  they  create  with  their  fingers; 
yet  there  is  about  them  a  fine  contentment,  an  almost 
radiance,  that  is  inspiring  only  to  look  upon.  When 
they  do  have  a  few  francs  for  pleasure,  you  will  find 
them  at  the  Franpais  or  the  Odeon — the  best  to  be 
had  is  their  criterion;  and  when  the  theatres  are  out 
of  their  reach,  on  Sundays  and  holidays  they  crowd 
the  galleries  and  museums,  exchanging  keenly  in- 
telligent comment  as  they  scrutinize  one  masterpiece 
after  another. 

The  culture  of  the  nation,  at  least,  is  not  artificial ; 
but  deep-rooted  as  no  other  race  can  claim:  in  the 
poorest  ouvrier,  no  less  than  in  the  most  polished 
gentleman,  there  exists  the  insatiable  instinct  for  what 
is  fine  and  worthy  to  be  assimilated.  And  if  the  prej- 
udiced concede  this  perhaps,  but  add  that  it  remains 
an  intellectual  instinct  always — an  artistic  instinct, 
while  the  heart  of  French  people  is  callous  and  cold, 
one  may  suggest  that  there  are  two  kinds  of  artists: 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  89 

those  who  give  away  their  hearts  in  their  art,  and 
those  who  jealously  hide  theirs  lest  the  vulgar  tear  it 
to  pieces. 

And  the  great  artiste,  however  gracious  she  may 
be  for  us,  however  kind  may  be  her  smile,  never  lets 
us  forget  that  we  are  before  a  curtain ;  which,  though 
she  may  draw  it  aside  and  give  us  brief  glimpses  of 
her  wonder,  conceals  some  things  too  precious  to  be 
shown. 


II 

ON  HER  EVERYDAY  PERFORMANCE 

Sight-seeing  in  Paris  must  be  like  looking  at  the 
Venus  of  Milo  on  a  roll  of  cinematograph  films — an 
experience  too  harrowing  to  be  remembered.  I  am 
sure  it  is  the  better  part  of  discretion  to  forswear 
Baedeker,  and  without  system  just  to  "poke  round." 
Thus  one  catches  the  artists,  in  the  multiform  moods 
of  their  Hf e,  as  ordinary  beings ;  and  stumbles  across 
historic  wonders  enough  into  the  bargain. 

Really  to  take  Paris  unawares,  one  must  get  up 
in  the  morning  before  she  does,  and  slip  out  into  the 
street  when  the  white-bloused  baker's  boy  and  a 
sleepy  cocher  or  two,  with  their  drowsy,  dawdling 
horses,  are  all  the  life  to  be  seen.  One  walks  along  the 
empty  boulevards,  down  the  quiet  Rue  de  la  Paix, 
into  the  stately  serenity  of  the  Place  Vendome  and 
on  across  the  shining  Seine  into  the  grey,  ancient 
stillness  of  the  crooked  Rue  du  Bac.  And  in  this 
early  morning  calm,  of  solitary  spaces  and  clear  sun- 
shine, fresh-sprinkled  streets  and  gently  fluttering 
trees,  one  meets  with  a  new  and  altogether  different 
Paris  from  the  dazzling,  exotic  city  one  knows  by  day 
and  at  night. 

90 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  91 

Absent  is  the  snort  and  reckless  rush  of  motors, 
the  insistent  jangling  of  tram  and  horse's  bells,  the 
rumble  of  carts  and  clip-clop  of  their  Norman  stall- 
ions' feet;  absent  the  hurrying,  kaleidoscopic  throngs 
who  issue  from  the  subway  stations  and  fill  the  thor- 
oughfares; absent  even  that  familiar  smell-of-the- 
city  which  in  Paris  is  a  fusion  of  gasoline,  wet  as- 
phalt, and  the  faint  fragrance  of  women's  sachet: 
this  virgin  morning  peace  is  without  odour  save  the 
odour  of  fresh  leaves,  without  noise,  without  the 
bustle  of  moving  people.  The  city  stretches  its 
broad  arms  North  and  South,  East  and  West,  like  a 
serene  woman  in  the  embrace  of  tranquil  dreams ;  and 
suggests  a  soft  and  beautiful  repose. 

But,  while  still  you  are  drinking  deep  of  it,  she  stirs 
— opens  her  eyes.  A  distant  cry  is  heard:  "E-e-ehy 
pommes  de  terre-eeeeh!"  And  then  another:  "Les 
petites  f raises  du  hois!  Les  petites  fraises!"  And 
the  cries  come  nearer,  and  there  is  the  sound  of  steps 
and  the  creak  of  a  hand-cart ;  and  Paris  rubs  her  eyes 
and  wakes  up — she  must  go  out  and  buy  potatoes ! 

The  same  fat,  brown- faced  woman  with  the  same 
two  dogs — one  pulling  the  cart,  one  running  fussily 
along-side — has  sold  potatoes  in  the  same  streets 
round  the  Place  Vendome,  ever  since  I  can  remember. 
For  years,  her  lingering  vibrant  cry  has  roused  this 
part  of  Paris  to  the  first  sign  of  day.  And  while  she 
is  making  change,  and  gossiping  with  the  concierge, 
and  the  smaller  dog  is  sniffing  impatiently  round  her 
skirts,  windows  are  opened,  gratings  groan  up,  at  the 


92  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

corner  some  workmen  call  to  one  another — and  the 
day  is  begun. 

While  the  streets  are  still  comparatively  empty, 
let  us  follow  the  first  abroad — the  little  midinette 
(shop-girl)  and  her  mother — to  mass.  They  will 
choose  one  of  the  old,  unfashionable  churches,  like 
St.  Roch  or  La  Trinite;  though  on  Sundays  they  go 
to  the  Madeleine  to  hear  the  music,  and  revel  in  splen- 
did pomp  and  pageantry.  France  at  heart  is  agnos- 
tic ;  a  nation  of  fatalists,  if  anything.  But  the  vivid 
French  imagination  is  held  in  thrall  by  the  colour 
and  mystic  ritual  of  the  Catholic  church :  by  the  most 
perfect  in  ceremonial  and  detail  of  all  religions. 
When  the  curtain  rises  on  the  full  magnificence  of 
gorgeous  altar,  golden-robed  bishop  and  officiating 
priests ;  when,  in  accompaniment  to  the  sonorous  Aves, 
exquisite  music  peals  forth,  and  the  whole  is  blended, 
melted  together  by  the  soft  light  of  candles,  the 
subtle  haze  of  incense:  into  French  faces  comes  that 
ecstasy  with  which  they  greet  the  perfect  in  all  its 
manifestations.  They  are  devotes  of  beauty  in  the 
religious  as  in  every  other  scene. 

But  now  our  midinette  and  her  maman  enter  a 
dusky  unpretentious  old  church,  where  quietly  they 
say  their  prayers  and  listen  to  the  monotonous  chant- 
ing of  a  single  priest,  reading  matins  in  a  little  corner 
chapel.  The  two  women  cross  themselves,  and  go  out. 
In  the  PlacCj  the  younger  one  stops  to  spend  two- 
pence for  a  spray  of  muguet — that  delicate  flower 
(the  lily-of-the-valley)  that  is  the  special  property  of 
the  midinettes  of  Paris,  and  that  they  love.    On  their 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  93 

Saint  Catherine's  Day  (May  1st) ,  no  girl  is  without  a 
little  bunch  of  it  as  a  " porte-honlieur"  for  her  love 
affairs  during  the  next  year. 

But  the  midinette  calls,  "au  'voir";  and  the  maman 
returns,  "a  ce  soir!"  And  they  disappear,  the  one  to 
her  shop,  the  other  to  her  duties  as  concierge  or  store- 
keeper, and  we  are  left  in  the  Place  alone.  What 
about  coffee?  Let  us  take  it  here  at  the  corner  bras- 
serie, where  the  old  man  with  his  napkin  tucked  in 
his  chin  is  crumbling  "crescents"  and  muttering  im- 
precations at  the  government — which  he  attacks 
through  the  Matin  or  Figaro  spread  upon  his  knees. 
A  young  man,  with  melancholy  black  moustaches  and 
orange  boots,  is  the  only  other  client  at  this  early  hour. 
He  refuses  to  eat,  though  a  cafe  complet  is  before 
him;  and  looks  at  his  watch,  and  sighs.  We  know 
what  is  the  matter  with  Jmn. 

Considerate  of  the  lady  who  is  late,  we  choose  a 
table  on  the  other  side — all  are  outdoors  of  course,  in 
this  Springtime  of  the  year — and  devote  ourselves  to 
discussing  honey  and  rolls  and  the  season's  styles  in 
hosiery,  which  young  persons  strolling  towards  the 
boulevard  benevolently  offer  for  our  inspection.  Oc- 
casionally they  pause,  and  graciously  inquire  if  we 
"have  need  of  someone?"  And  on  our  replying — 
with  the  proper  mixture  of  apology  and  admiration — 
that  all  our  wants  seem  to  be  attended  to,  pass  on 
with  a  shrug  of  resignation. 

Motor-buses  are  whirring  by  now,  and  a  maze  of 
fiacres,  taxis,  delivery-boy's  bicycles,  and  heavy  trucks 
skid  round  the  shppery  corner  in  dangerous  confu- 


94  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

sion.  The  traffic  laws  of  Paris  are  of  the  vaguest, 
and  policemen  are  few  and  far  between;  all  at  once, 
the  Place  seems  unbearably  thick  and  full  of  noise. 
We  call  for  our  addition,  exchange  complaisances 
with  the  waiter,  and  depart — just  as  the  young  man 
with  the  orange  boots,  with  a  cry  of  "enfinr  tucks 
the  hand  of  a  bewitchingly  pretty  young  lady  (doubt- 
less a  mannequin)  within  his  arm,  and  starts  towards 
the  Rue  de  la  Paix. 

The  Rue  de  la  Paix  at  half  past  nine  in  the  morn- 
ing does  not  intrigue  us.  We  prefer  to  wait  for  it 
until  the  sensational  heure  des  rendez-vous,  in  the 
evening.  Why  not  jump  into  a  cab  and  bowl  leis- 
urely out  to  the  Bois  ?  It  will  be  cool  there,  and  quiet 
during  the  hour  before  the  fashionable  cavaliers  come 
to  ride.  With  a  wary  eye  for  a  horse  of  reasonable 
solidity,  we  engage  a  blear-eyed  Gaul  to  tow  us  to 
the  Porte  Dauphine.  We  like  this  Gaul  above  other 
Gauls,  because  his  anxious  flop-eared  dog  sitting 
next  to  him  on  the  box  gives  every  sign  of  liking  him. 
And  though,  even  before  we  have  turned  into  the 
Champs  Elysees,  there  have  been  three  blood-cur- 
dling rows  between  cabby  and  various  colleagues  who 
presumed  to  occupy  a  place  in  the  same  street; 
though  whips  have  been  brandished  and  such  fero- 
cious epithets  as  "brother-in-law  of  a  bantam!"  "son 
of  a  pigeon-toed  hen!"  have  been  brandished  with- 
out mercy  by  our  remorseless  Jehu,  we  take  the  reas- 
suring word  of  his  dog's  worshipping  brown  eyes  that 
he  is  not  a  bad  sort  after  all. 

He  cracks  us  out  the  Champs  Elysees  at  a  smart 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  95 

pace;  yet  we  have  time  to  gloat  over  the  beauties  of 
this  lovehest  of  all  avenues:  its  spacious  gardens,  its 
brilliant  flower-plots,  its  quaint  little  guignols  and 
donkey  carriages  for  children.  Vendors  of  jumping 
bunnies  and  squeaking  pigs  thread  in  and  out  the 
shady  trees,  showing  their  fascinating  wares ;  and  one 
does  not  wonder  at  the  swarm  of  small  people  with 
their  bright-ribboned  nm'ses,  who  flock  round  to  ad- 
mire— and  to  buy. 

This  part  of  the  avenue — from  the  Concorde  to 
the  Rond-Point — is  given  over  to  children;  and  all 
kinds  of  amusements,  wise  and  unwise,  are  prepared 
for  them.  But  by  far  the  most  popular  are  the 
guignols:  those  theatres-in-little,  where  Punch  and 
Judy  go  through  their  harassing  adventures,  to  the 
accompaniment  of  "cest  joli,  ^a!"  and  ^'tiens,  que 
c'est  elite!" ;  uttered  by  enthusiastic  small  French 
throats,  seconded  by  applauding  small  French  hands. 
For  in  Paris  even  the  babies  have  their  appreciation 
for  the  drama  that  is  ofl'ered  them  before  they  can 
talk;  and  show  it  so  spontaneously,  yet  emphatically, 
that  one  is  arrested  by  their  vehemence. 

But  we  can  take  in  these  things  only  in  passing, 
for  Jehu  and  the  flop-eared  dog  are  carrying  us  on 
up  the  suavely  mounting  avenue,  beyond  the  haughty 
portals  of  fashionable  hotels  and  automobile  houses 
de  luooe;  round  the  stately  Arc  de  Triomphe,  and  into 
the  Avenue  du  Bois.  Here  a  sprinkling  of  govern- 
esses and  their  charges,  old  ladies,  and  lazy  young 
men  are  ranged  along  in  the  stiff"  luxury  of  penny 
chairs.     On  a  Sunday  we  might  stop  and  take  one 


96  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

ourselves,  to  watch  the  parade  of  toilettes  and  the 
lively  Parisian  jeunesse  at  its  favourite  game  of 
"fair^e  le  flirt" ;  but  this  morning  the  terrace  is  half 
asleep,  and  above  it  the  houses  of  American  million- 
aires and  famous  ladies  of  the  demi-monde  turn  for- 
bidding closed  shutters  to  our  inquiring  gaze.  Jehu 
speeds  us  past  them,  and  we  alight  at  the  Porte 
Dauphine,  the  principal  entrance  to  the  Bois. 

Green  grass,  the  glint  of  a  lake,  broad,  sandy 
roads  and  intimate  slim  allees  greet  us,  once  within 
the  gates;  while  all  round  and  overhead  are  the 
slender,  grey-green  French  poplars,  fashioned  into 
gracious  avenues  and  seductive  pathways,  with  its 
gay  little  restaurant  at  the  end.  Of  all  styles  and 
architecture  are  these  last:  Swiss  chalets,  Chinese 
pagodas,  Japanese  tea-houses,  and  the  typical  French 
pavilion;  they  have  one  common  trait,  however — that 
of  serving  atrocious  food  at  a  fabulous  price.  Let  us 
abjure  them,  and  wander  instead  along  the  quite  ex- 
pansive lake,  to  the  rocks  and  miniature  falls  of  Les 
Rochers. 

All  through  the  Bois  one  is  struck  with  the  char- 
acteristic French  passion  for  vistas.  There  is  none  of 
the  natural  wildness  of  Central  Park,  or  the  uninter- 
rupted sweep  of  green  fields  that  gives  the  charm  of 
air  and  openness  to  the  parks  of  London;  but — 
though  here  in  Paris  we  are  in  a  "wood" — every- 
where there  is  the  elaborate  simplicity  of  French  land- 
scape gardening:  trees  cut  into  tall  Gothic  arches,  or 
bent  into  round,  tunnel-like  curves;  brush  trimmed 
precisely  into  formal  box  hedges;  paths  leading  into 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  97 

avenues,  that  in  turn  lead  into  other  avenues — so  that 
before,  behind,  and  on  every  side  there  is  that  pro- 
longed silver-grey  perspective.  One  sees  the  same 
thing  at  Versailles  and  St.  Cloud:  in  every  French 
forest,  for  that  matter.  The  artist  cannot  stay  her 
hand,  even  for  the  hand  of  nature. 

And  so,  in  the  Bois,  rocks  have  been  built  into 
grottos,  and  trickling  waterfalls  trained  to  form 
cascades  above  them ;  and  little  lakes  and  islands  have 
been  inserted — everything,  anything,  that  the  artistic 
imagination  could  conceive,  to  enhance  the  sylvan 
scene  for  the  critical  actors  who  frequent  it.  Which 
reminds  us  that  these  last  will  be  on  view  now — it  is 
eleven  o'clock,  their  hour  for  riding  and  the  prom- 
enade. So  let  us  leave  Les  Rocliers,  and  the  greedy 
goats  of  the  Pre  Catalan,  and  hasten  back  to  the  Ave- 
nue des  Aca9ias  and  the  famous  Sentier  de  Vertu. 

Here,  a  chic  procession  of  elegantes  and  their  ad- 
mirers are  strolling  along,  laughing  and  chatting  as 
they  come  upon  acquaintances,  forming  animated  lit- 
tle groups,  only  to  break  up  and  wander  on  to  join 
others.  Cavaliers  in  smart  English  coats,  or  the  dash- 
ing St.  Cyr  uniform,  canter  by ;  calling  gay  greeting 
to  friends,  for  whose  benefit  they  display  an  elabor- 
ately careless  bit  of  clever  horsemenship  en  passant. 
Ladies  and  "half -ladies"  in  habits  of  startling  yet 
somehow  alluring  cut  and  hue — heliotrope  and  brick 
pink  are  among  the  favourites — allow  their  mounts 
to  saunter  lazily  along  the  allees,  while  their  own 
modestly  veiled  eyes  spy  out  prey.  They  are  viewed 
with  severity  by  the  bonne  bourgeoise  of  the  tortoise- 


98  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

shell  lorgnettes  and  heavy  moustache;  who  keeps  her 
limousine  within  impressive  calling  distance,  while 
she,  with  her  fat  poodle  under  her  arm,  waddles  along 
ogling  the  beaux. 

A  doughty  regiment  of  these  there  are:  young 
men  with  marvellous  waists  and  eager,  searching 
eyes;  middle-aged  men  with  figures  "well  preserved," 
and  eyes  that  make  a  desperate  eifort  at  eagerness, 
but  only  succeed  in  looking  tired ;  and  then  the  old  gal- 
lants, waxed  and  varnished,  and  gorgeously  immac- 
ulate, from  sandy  toupee  to  gleaming  pointed  shoes 
— the  three  hours  they  have  spent  with  the  barber  and 
in  the  scrupulous  hands  of  their  valet  have  not  been 
in  vain.  They  do  the  honours  of  the  Sentier,  with  a 
courtliness  that  brings  back  Louis  Quatorze  and  the 
days  of  Ninon  and  the  lovely  Montespan. 

But  there  are  as  lovely — and  perhaps  as  naughty  ? 
— ladies  among  these  who  saunter  leisurely  down  the 
grey-green  paths  today.  In  wonderfully  simple, 
wonderfully  complicated  toilettes  de  matin,  they  stroll 
along  in  pairs — or  again  (with  an  oblique  glance  over 
the  shoulder,  oh  a  quite  indifferent  glance),  care- 
lessly alone  with  two  or  three  little  dogs.  I  read 
last  week  in  one  of  the  French  illustrated  papers  a 
serious  treatise  on  ladies'  dogs.  It  was  divided  into 
the  three  categories:  "Dogs  for  morning,"  "Dogs 
for  afternoon,"  "Dogs  of  ceremony" — meaning  full- 
dress  dogs.  And  the  article  gravely  discussed  the  cor- 
rect canine  accessory  that  should  be  worn  with  each 
separate  costume  of  the  elegante's  elaborate  day.  It 
omitted  to  add,  however,  the  incidental  value  of  these 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  99 

costly  scraps  of  fuzz,  as  chaperones.  But  with  a 
couple  of  dogs,  as  one  pretty  lady  softly  assured  me, 
one  can  go  anywhere,  feeling  quite  secure ;  and  one's 
husband,  too — for  of  course  he  realizes  that  the  sweet 
little  beasts  must  be  exercised! 

So  the  conscientious  ladies  regularly  "exercise" 
them;  and  if  sometimes,  in  their  exuberance,  Toto 
and  Mimi  escape  their  distressed  young  mistresses, 
and  must  be  brought  back  by  a  friend  who  "chanced" 
to  be  near  at  hand — who  can  cavil?  And  if  the  kind 
restorer  walks  a  little  way  with  the  trio  he  has  re- 
united, or  sits  with  them  for  a  few  moments  under  the 
trees,  why  not?  They  are  always  three — Toto  and 
Mimi  and  the  lady — and  one's  friends  who  may  hap- 
pen to  pass  know  for  themselves  how  hard  dogs  are 
to  keep  in  hand! 

So  we  have  a  series  of  gay,  weU-dressed  couples 
wandering  down  the  intimate  allees,  or  scattered  in 
the  white  iron  chairs  within  the  trees :  a  very  different 
series  from  those  who  will  be  here  at  eleven  o'clock 
tonight — and  every  night.  The  Bois  is  far  too  large 
to  be  policed,  and  the  grotesque  shapes  that  haunt  it 
after  dark — crouching,  low-browed  figures  that  slink 
along  in  the  shadows,  greedy  for  any  sort  of  prey — 
make  one  shudder,  even  from  the  security  of  a  closed 
cab.  All  about  are  the  brilliant,  bright-lit  restaurants 
with  their  crowds  of  feasting  sybarites;  yet  at  the 
very  door  of  these — waiting  to  fall  upon  them  if 
they  take  six  steps  beyond  the  threshold — is  that 
grisly,  desperate  band,  some  say  of  Apaches,  others 
say  monsters  worse  than  those. 


100  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

At  all  events,  it  is  better  in  the  evening  to  turn 
one's  eyes  away  from  the  shadowy  paths,  and  towards 
the  amusing  tableaux  to  be  seen  in  passing  fiacres 
and  taxis.  To  the  more  reserved  Anglo-Saxon, 
French  frankness  of  demonstration  in  affairs  of  the 
affections  comes  always  as  a  bit  of  a  shock.  To  see 
a  lady  reclining  against  the  arm  of  a  gentleman,  as 
the  two  spin  along  the  boulevard  in  an  open  horse- 
cab  ;  to  watch  them,  quite  oblivious  of  the  world  look- 
ing on,  ardently  turn  and  kiss  one  another:  this  is  a 
disturbing  and  meanly  provocative  scene  to  put  before 
the  susceptible  American.  No  one  else  pays  any  at- 
tention to  it — they  have  acted  that  scene  so  many 
times  themselves ;  and  when,  in  the  friendly  darkness 
of  the  Bois  at  night,  all  lingering  discretion  is  thrown 
to  the  winds,  and  behind  the  cabby's  broad,  habituated 
back  anything  and  everything  in  the  way  of  fervid 
love-making  goes  on — who  cares?  Except  to  smile 
sympathetically,  and  return  to  his  own  affair,  more 
ardently  than  ever.  The  silliouettes  one  sees  against 
taxi-windows  and  the  dust-coloured  cushions  of 
fiacres  are  utterly  demoralizing  to  respectable  Amer- 
ican virtue. 

Let  us  turn  on  the  light  of  day,  therefore,  and  in 
a  spasm  of  prudence  mount  a  penny-bus  that  traffics 
between  the  Etoile  and  the  Latin  Quarter.  It  is  a 
flagrant  faux-pas  to  arrive  in  the  Latin  Quarter  by 
way  of  anything  more  sumptuous  than  a  penny-bus 
or  a  twopenny  tram.  It  shrieks  it  from  the  cobbles, 
that  one  is  a  "nouveau" ;  and  that,  in  the  Quarter,  is 
a  disgrace  too  horrible  to  be  endured. 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  101 

We  rock  across  the  Pont  Royal,  then,  on  the  pre- 
carious upper  story  of  an  omnibus;  and  wind  along 
the  narrow  Rue  du  Bac,  which,  since  our  visit  of  early 
morning,  has  waked  to  fitful  life  in  its  old  plaster 
and  print  shops.  Second-hand  dealers  of  all  kinds 
flourish  here,  and  the  medley  of  ancient  books,  musty 
reliquaries,  antique  jewelry,  and  battered  images 
minus  such  trifles  as  a  nose  or  ear,  makes  the  street 
into  one  continuous  curiosity-shop.  Until  one  reaches 
the  varnish  and  modern  bustle  of  the  Bon  Marche 
stores;  then,  when  we  have  been  shot  through  the 
weather-beaten  slit  of  the  Rue  des  Saints  Peres,  I 
insist  that  we  shall  climb  down  and  go  on  foot  up 
quaint,  irregular  Notre-Dame-des-Champs  to  the 
garden  where  I  spent  many  joyous  days  as  a  student. 

It  is  in  a  crooked  little  street  which  runs  breath- 
lessly for  a  block  between  Notre-Dame-des-Champs 
and  the  Boulevard  Montparnasse — and  there  stops; 
leaving  you  with  the  insinuation  that  it  has  done  its 
best  to  squeeze  in  on  this  frazzled  boundary  of  the 
old  Quarter,  and  that  more  cannot  be  expected  of  it. 
On  one  side  of  the  abrupt  block,  rambles  the  one- 
time hotel  of  the  Duchesse  de  Chevreuse;  intrigante, 
cosmopolitan,  irresponsible  lover  of  adventure,  who 
kept  Louis  XIII's  court  in  a  hubbub  with  her  pranks 
and  her  inordinate  influence  over  Queen  Anne. 

The  grey  court  that  has  seen  the  trysts  of  Chalais, 
Louvigni,  even  of  the  great  Richelieu  himself,  rests 
still  intact ;  and  they  say  the  traditional  secret  passage 
also — leading  from  a  hidden  recess  in  the  garden  to 
the  grands  palais.    But  that  is  only  legend  (which, 


102  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

by  some  vagary,  still  clings  to  the  feelers  of  the  prac- 
tical twentieth  century  mind),  and  I  have  never  seen 
it.  The  hotel  is  now  covered  yearly  with  a  neat  coat 
of  yellow  paint,  and  used  as  an  apartment  house; 
crowded  by  the  usual  rows  of  little  Quarter  shops :  a 
cobbler's,  a  blanchissage,  a  goldsmith's  on  the  East 
wing;  the  beaten-down  door  of  an  antiquary  on  the 
West :  until  its  outraged  painted  bricks  seem  to  bulge 
out  over  the  thread  of  a  side-walk,  in  continual  effort 
to  rub  noses  with  the  hointal  opposite — the  only  other 
house  of  any  age  in  the  street. 

One  peep  at  the  garden — and  you  will  admit  it  is 
worth  it,  with  its  lovely  plaintive  iris,  its  pale  wistaria, 
its  foolish  pattering  fountain — and  we  turn  towards 
the  Boulevard  and  lunch.  I  have  said  this  bit  of  a 
street  along  which  we  are  walking  is  on  the  bound- 
ary of  the  old  Quarter.  Alas,  in  these  days  there  is 
no  Quarter.  One  tries  to  think  there  is,  particularly 
if  one  is  a  new-comer  to  the  Left  Bank,  and  enthusi- 
astic; but  one  learns  all  too  soon  that  there  is  not. 
There  are  students,  yes,  and  artists;  and  the  cafes 
and  paintshops  and  pretty  grisettes  that  go  with 
students  and  artists.  But  the  quarter  of  Rudolph  and 
Mimi,  of  Trilby  and  Svengali:  can  you  find  it  in 
steam-heated  apartments,  where  ladies  in  Worth 
gowns  pour  tea  ?  Or  in  the  thick  blue  haze  about  the 
bridge  and  poker  games  at  the  Cafe  du  Dome? 

The  Quarter  has  passed;  there  remains  only  its 
name.  And  that  we  should  use  with  a  muttered  "for- 
give us  our  trespasses" ;  for  it  is  the  name  of  romance, 
shifted  onto  commonplaceness. 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  103 

Yet  one  can  still  enjoy  there  the  romance  of  a 
delicious  meal  for  two  francs  fifty ;  and  there  are  any 
number  of  jealously  hidden  places  from  which  to 
choose.  Let  us  go  to  Henriette's,  this  tiny  hole-in- 
the-wall,  where  one  passes  the  fragrant-steaming 
kitchen  on  the  way  to  the  little  room  inside,  and  calls 
a  greeting  to  the  cook — an  old  friend — where  he 
stands,  lobster-pink  and  beaming,  over  his  copper 
sauce-pans.  Back  under  a  patched  and  hoary  sky- 
light the  tables  are  placed;  and  a  family  of  mild- 
mannered  mice  clamber  out  over  the  glass  to  peer 
inquiringly  at  the  gluttons  below — who  eat  at  one 
bite  enough  cheese  to  keep  any  decently  delicate 
mouse  for  a  week. 

We  order  an  omelette  aiuv  champignons,  a  Chateau- 
briand (corresponding  to  our  tenderloin  of  steak) 
with  pommes  souffles;  as  a  separate  vegetable,  petits 
pois  a  la  Franfaise,  and  for  dessert  a  heaping  plate  of 
wild  strawberries  to  be  eaten  with  one  of  these  delect- 
able brown  pots  of  thick  creme  d'Isigny — aih!  It 
makes  one  exquisitely  languid  only  to  think  of  it,  all 
that  luscious  food!  We  lean  back  voluptuously  in 
our  stiff  little  chairs,  and  gaze  about  us  while  wait- 
ing for  it. 

At  the  half  dozen  tables  round  us  are  seated  the 
modern  prototypes  of  Rudolph  and  INIimi:  mildly 
boisterous  American  youths  from  the  Beaux  Arts  and 
Julien's;  careworn  English  spinsters  with  freckles 
and  paint-smudged  fingers;  a  Russian  couple,  with 
curious  "shocked"  hair  and  vivid,  roving  black  eyes; 
a  stray  Frenchman  or  two,  probably  shop-keepers 


104  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

from  the  Boulevard,  and  a  trio  of  models — red- 
lipped,  torrid-eyed,  sinuously  round,  in  their  sheath- 
fitting  tailored  skirts  and  cheap  blouses.  They  are 
making  a  nonchalant  meal  off  bread  and  cheese,  and 
a  bottle  of  vin  ordinaire:  evidently  times  are  bad,  or 
"ce  hon  gargon  Harry's"  remittance  has  not  come. 

Proof  of  other  bad  times  is  in  the  charming  frieze 
painted,  in  coromemoration  of  the  Queen  of  Hearts, 
by  two  girl  artists  of  a  former  day,  who  worked  out 
their  over-due  bill  to  the  house  in  this  decorative 
fashion.  For  the  poverty,  at  least,  of  the  traditional 
Quarter  survives;  though  smothered  into  side  streets 
and  obscure  "passages"  by  the  self-styled  "Bohem- 
ians" of  Boulevards  Raspail  and  Montparnasse.  And 
one  notices  that  the  habitues  of  Henriette's  and  of  all 
the  humbler  restaurants  have  their  own  napkin-rings 
which  they  take  from  the  rack  as  they  come  in;  does 
it  not  save  them  ten  centimes,  an  entire  penny,  on  the 
charge  for  convert? 

They  have  their  own  tobacco  too,  and  roll  their 
cigarettes  with  care  not  to  spill  a  single  leaf  at  the 
process ;  and  you  feel  a  heartless  Dives  to  sit  smoking 
your  fragrant  Egyptians  after  your  luxurious  meal 
and  sipping  golden  Benedictine  at  the  considerable 
price  of  forty  centimes  (eight  cents).  Our  more 
frugal  neighbours,  however,  show  no  sign  of  envy,  or 
indeed  of  interest  of  any  sort;  their  careless  indif- 
ference not  only  to  us,  but  to  their  own  meal  and 
the  desultory  chatter  of  their  comrades,  speaks  of 
long  and  familiar  experience  with  both.  Somehow 
they  are  depressing,  these  Rudolphs  without  their 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  105 

velveteens,  these  Mimis  without  their  flowers  and 
other  romantic  trappings  of  poverty;  the  hideous 
modern  garments  of  the  shabbily  genteel  only  em- 
phasize a  sordid  lack  of  petty  cash. 

I  suggest  that  we  run  away  from  them,  and  hie 
us  to  the  lilac-bushes  and  bewitching  bcbcs  of  the 
Jardin  du  Luxembourg;  for  in  the  realm  of  the  great 
artiste  even  the  babies  contribute  to  the  scene,  and  in 
their  fascinating  short  frocks,  and  wee  rose-trimmed 
bonnets,  are  a  gladsome  troupe  of  Lilliputians  with 
whom  to  while  away  one's  melancholy.  But  you  may 
have  an  inhuman  apathy  towards  babies,  and  prefer  to 
taxi  out  to  St.  Germain  for  a  view  of  the  terrace,  and 
a  glimpse  en  route  of  sadly  lovely  Malmaison — the 
memory-haunted  home  of  Josephine.  Or  you  may 
suggest  the  races — though  I  hope  you  won't,  because 
in  France  the  sport  is  secondary;  and  mannequins 
are  a  dull  race.  I  had  rather  you  chose  an  excursion 
up  the  Seine,  on  one  of  the  fussy  httle  river-boats; 
though  of  course  at  St.  Cloud  we  should  be  sure  to 
find  a  blaring  street  fair  in  possession  of  the  forest, 
and  at  Meudon  the  same :  the  actors  must  bring  their 
booths  and  flying  pigs  into  the  very  domain  of  Dame 
Nature  herself;  being  no  respecters  of  congruity 
where  passion  for  the  theatric  is  concerned. 

But  we  should  have  the  cool  vistas  of  the  inner 
forest,  and  the  stately  satisfaction  of  historic  stone 
stairs  and  mellow  creamy-grey  urns  and  statues 
through  the  trees;  or  we  can  go  down  the  river  in- 
stead to  old  Vincennes,  and  have  a  look  at  the  grim 


106  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

prison-castle  that  has  sheltered  many  a  noble  in  dis- 
grace. Which  shall  it  be?  To  use  Madame  La 
France's  borrowed  Spanish  expression:  I  am  ''tout 
a  voire  disposition." 


Ill 

AND  ITS  SEQUEL 

Whichever  it  is,  we  must  be  back  in  time  for  tea 
at  one  of  the  fashionable  "fiv'  o' clocks" ;  for,  though 
many  ladies  who  buy  their  clothes  in  Paris  do  not 
know  it,  looking-  at  grandes  dames  is  vastly  different 
from  looking  at  mannequins  or  the  demi-monde ;  and 
the  French  grande  dame  is  at  her  best  at  the  tea 
hour.  Someone  has  said,  with  truth,  that  the  Ameri- 
can woman  is  the  best-dressed  in  the  morning,  the 
Englishwoman  the  best-dressed  at  night ;  but  that  the 
Parisienne  triumphs  over  both  in  the  gracious,  cling- 
ing gown  of  afternoon. 

Let  us  turn  into  this  exclusive  little  establishment 
in  the  Place  Vendome,  and  from  the  vantage  of  a 
window-table  in  the  mezzanine  observe  the  lovely 
ladies  as  they  enter.  The  first  to  come  is  in  the  sim- 
plest frock  of  leaf-green — the  average  American 
woman  would  declare  it  "positively  plain";  there  is 
not  a  sign  of  lace  or  hand  embroidery  about  it,  only 
at  the  open  throat  a  soft  fall  of  finest  net,  snowy  as 
few  American  women  would  take  pains  to  have  it. 
And  the  lady's  hair  is  warm  copper,  and  her  hat  a 
mere   ingenious    twist   of   leaf -green   tulle;    but   a 

107 


108  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

master  hand  has  draped  it  and  the  simple  frock  of 
green ;  and  the  whole  is  a  beautiful  blend  of  line  and 
colour,  as  unstudied  as  a  bit  of  autumn  woodland. 

Here  is  a  combination  more  striking.  The  lady 
just  stepping  from  the  pansy  limousine  has  chosen 
yellow  for  her  costume  of  shimmering  crepe;  a  rich 
dull  ochre,  with  a  hint  of  red  in  its  flowing  folds. 
At  the  neck  and  wrists  are  bits  of  fragile  old  em- 
broidery, yellow  too  with  age,  and  that  melt  into  the 
flesh-tones  of  the  wearer  till  they  seem  part  of  her 
living  self;  while  at  the  slim  waist-line  is  a  narrow 
band  of  dusky  rose — the  kind  of  rose  that  looks 
faintly  coated  with  silver — and  daringly  caught  up 
high  at  the  right  side,  a  single  mauve  petunia.  The 
hat  of  course  is  black — a  mere  nothing  of  a  tiny  toque, 
with  one  spray  of  filmy  feather  low  against  the  lady's 
blond  hair. 

"But  she  is  not  pretty  at  all,"  you  realize  sud- 
denly; "she's  really  almost  ugly,  and  yet — " 

Exactly.  A  Frenchwoman  can  be  as  ugly  as  it 
pleases  perverse  Heaven  to  make  her ;  there  is  always 
the  "and  yet"  of  her  overwhelming  charm.  You  may 
call  it  artificial  if  you  like — the  mere  material  allure- 
ments of  stuifs  and  bits  of  thread;  but  to  arrange 
those  stuffs  there  must  be  a  fine  discrimination,  to 
know  how  to  use  those  bits  of  thread,  a  subtle  science 
no  other  woman  has — or  ever  quite  acquires.  Look 
about  you  in  the  tea-room — now  fast  filling  with 
women  of  all  ages  and  all  tastes — what  is  it  that 
forms  their  great  general  attraction?  White  hands, 
shown  to  perfection  by  a  fall  of  delicate  lace,  or  the 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  109 

gleam  of  a  single  big  emerald  or  sapphire;  hands 
moving  daintily  among  fragile  china,  the  sheen  of 
silver,  the  transparency  of  glass.  And  above  the 
hands,  vif  faces,  set  in  the  soft  coquetry  of  snowy 
ruches,  graceful  fichus,  piquant  Medici  collars,  but 
all  open  upon  the  alluring  V  of  creamy  throat. 

What  is  it  these  women  have?  You  can  set  down 
what  they  have  on,  but  what  is  it  you  cannot  set  down, 
yet  that  you  know  they  possess?  It  is  the  art  of 
supreme  femininity,  carried  out  in  the  emphasis  of 
every  charm  femininity  has;  by  means  of  contrast, 
colour,  above  all  by  the  subtlest  means  in  everything: 
simplicity.  And  there  is  added  to  their  conscious  art 
a  pervading  delicate  voluptuousness,  that  underlies 
the  every  expression  of  themselves  as  women;  and 
that  completes  the  havoc  of  the  male  they  subjugate. 

Look  at  him  now.  Do  you  know  any  man  but  an 
Englishman  who  likes  tea?  Yet  here  they  are,  these 
absinthe-ridden  Frenchmen  drinking  it  with  a 
fervour;  but  their  eyes  are  not  within  their  cups! 
For  again  the  highly  proper  little  dogs  are  present 
— "dogs  for  the  afternoon,"  of  course;  and  the  man- 
agement has  been  thoughtful  in  providing  discreet 
corners  and  deep  window-seats,  where  a  tete-a-tete 
may  be  enjoyed  without  too  many  interruptions  on 
the  part  of  the  chic  waitress  with  a  windward  eye  to 
tips. 

Another  precaution  these  abandoned  couples 
take  is  a  third  person — usually  a  young  girl — to  be 
with  them.  IMadame  starts  out  with  the  young  girl, 
by  chance  they  meet  ^lonsieur  X  at  the  five-o'clock, 


110  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

and  have  tea  with  him ;  of  course  he  escorts  the  ladies 
home,  and  equally  of  course  the  young  girl  is 
"dropped"  first.  If  between  her  house  and  that  of 
Madame's,  the  better  part  of  an  hour  is  employed  in 
threading  the  tangled  traffic  of  that  time  of  evening, 
who  can  say  a  word  except  the  chauffeur — who  is 
given  no  reason  to  regret  his  long-suffering  silence 
on  such  subjects.  Thus  during  the  hour  after  tea, 
the  hour  between  six  and  seven,  when  kindly  dusk 
lends  her  cloak  to  the  game,  husbands  and  wives  play 
at  their  eternal  trick  of  outwitting  one  another. 

It  may  be  a  game  that  disgusts  you,  you  may  find 
it  sordid,  even  repellent,  to  watch ;  but,  among  people 
with  whom  the  marriage  of  convenience  is  universal 
(and  in  most  respects  turns  out  excellently  well), 
what  can  you  expect?  A  lover  or  a  divorce,  for  both 
parties;  and  the  French  man  and  woman  prefer  to 
maintain  the  stability  of  house  and  name,  and  to  wink 
at  one  another's  individual  peccadilloes.  They  are 
generally  very  good  friends,  and  devoted  to  their 
children ;  and  never,  never  do  they  commit  that  crass- 
ness  of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  in  bringing  their  amours 
within  the  home. 

So  let  us  watch  the  departing  couples  whirl  away 
from  the  little  tea-room,  without  too  great  severity; 
and  ourselves  wander  out  into  the  Place,  and  up  the 
short,  spectacular  Rue  de  la  Paix.  This  above  all 
others  is  the  hour  to  see  it — when  fashion  throngs  the 
narrow  pavements,  or  bowls  slowly  past  in  open  motor 
cars;  and  when  the  courts  of  the  great  dressmaker's 
shops  are  filled  with  young  blades,  waiting  for  the 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  111 

mannequins  to  come  down.  One  by  one  these  mar- 
vellously slim,  marvellously  apparelled  young  persons 
appear;  each  choosing  the  most  effective  moment  she 
can  contrive  for  her  particular  entrance  into  the  twi- 
light of  the  street.  A  silken  hum  of  skirts  precedes 
her;  the  swains  in  the  doorway  eagerly  look  up — ad- 
just their  scarf-pins,  give  a  jauntier  tilt  to  their  top- 
hats — and  the  apparition,  sweetly  smiling  and  em- 
phatically perfumed,  is  among  them. 

There  are  murmured  greetings,  a  suggestion  from 
two  of  the  bolder  of  the  beaux,  a  gracious  assent  from 
the  lady ;  and  the  three  spin  away  in  a  taxi,  to  Armen- 
onville  or  Chateau  Madrid,  for  dinner.  They  have  a 
very  pleasant  life,  these  mannequins ;  for  lending  the 
figure  the  hon  Dieu  gave  them — or  that  they  pains- 
takingly have  acquired — they  receive  excellent  salaries 
from  the  great  couturiers.  In  consideration  of  which 
they  appear  at  the  establishment  when  they  please, 
or  not  at  all,  when  they  have  the  caprice  to  stay  away. 
If  the  figure  is  sufficiently  remarkable,  there  is  no 
limit  to  the  whims  they  can  enjoy — and  be  pardoned, 
even  eagerly  implored  to  return  to  their  deserted 
posts.  And  then,  as  we  see,  after  professional  hours 
— what  pleasaunce  of  opportunity !  What  boundless 
possibilities  of  la  vie  chic!  Really,  saith  the  ex-midi- 
nette  complacently,  it  is  good  to  have  become  a  man- 
nequin. 

Some  there  are  who  at  this  excellent  business- 
hour  of  evening,  make  a  preoccupied  exit ;  sweep  past 
the  disappointed  gentlemen  in  waiting,  and  walk 
swiftly  towards  the  maze  and  glitter  of  the  Boule- 


112  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

vard.  The  g-entlemen  shrug,  comprehending.  A 
rendex-vous.  Out  of  idle  curiosity,  one  of  them  may 
follow.  "Mais,  ma  cliereT  he  murmurs  reproach- 
fully, at  sight  of  the  ill-restored  antiquity  the  lady 
annexes  at  the  corner. 

She  makes  a  deprecatory  little  face,  over  her 
shoulder,  which  says,  "You  ought  to  understand,  one 
must  be  practical.  But  what  about  tomorrow  night?" 
And  a  bit  of  paste-board  flutters  from  her  gold  purse 
and  at  the  feet  of  the  reproachful  gentleman;  who 
smiles,  picks  it  up,  reads  it,  shrugs,  and  strolls  back 
to  his  doorway,  to  find  other  extravagance  for  this 
evening. 

What  a  Paris!  you  exclaim;  is  there  anything  in 
it  besides  the  rendez-vous?  Not  at  this  hour.  For 
mechanics  and  midinettes,  bank-clerks  and  vendeuses, 
shop-keepers  and  ever-thrifty  daughters  of  joy,  pour 
into  the  boulevards  in  a  human  flood ;  and  always,  fol- 
lowing Biblical  example,  they  go  two  by  two.  In  an- 
other hour  they  will  be  before  their  croute-au-pot,  in 
one  of  these  omnipresent  cafes ;  for  the  present  they 
anxiously  wait  on  corners,  or,  with  a  relieved  smile, 
link  arms  and  move  off  at  an  absorbed,  lingering  gait 
down  the  boulevard. 

Some  halt,  to  sit  down  at  the  little  tables  on  the 
side-walk,  and  drink  an  aperitif.  Here  too,  the  old 
dogs  of  commerce  and  industry  get  together  over  a 
Pernod  or  a  Dubonnet^  and  in  groups  of  twos  and 
threes  heatedly  thrash  out  the  unheard-of  fluctua- 
tions of  the  Bourse  today.  The  bon  bourgeois  meets 
his  wife,  and  hears  of  the  children's  cleverness,  the 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  113 

servant's  perfidy,  over  a  strop;  two  angemic  young 
government  clerks  gulp  Amer  Picon,  and  violently 
contradict  one  another  about  the  situation  in  Morocco ; 
a  well-known  danseuse  sips  vermouth  with  the  long- 
haired youth  who  directs  the  orchestra  at  the  Folies 
Bergeres:  it  is  as  though,  between  six  and  seven,  all 
Paris  is  strung  along  outside  the  cafes  that  link  the 
boulevard  into  a  chain  of  chairs  and  tables.  And  in 
the  street,  down  the  middle,  motor-buses  honk  their 
horns,  horse-buses  crack  their  whips,  cochers  and 
chauffeurs  shout  anathema  to  one  another  and  male- 
diction on  policemen  and  the  human  worm  in  general ; 
while  the  traffic  thickens  and  crawls  slower  with  every 
minute,  and  a  few  helpless  gendarmes  struggle  in 
vain  to  preserve  order. 

Let  us  out  of  it  all,  and  to  dine.  We  can  go  to 
Chateau  INIadrid,  and  eat  under  the  trees,  and  watch 
the  gorgeous  Parisiennes  in  the  gallery  as  instinc- 
tively they  group  themselves  to  lend  heightened  effect 
to  the  ensemble;  or  we  can  go  to  Paillard's  and  pay 
ten  dollars  apiece  for  the  privilege  of  sitting  against 
the  wall  and  consuming  such  sauces  as  never  were  in 
Olympus  or  the  earth  beneath;  or  we  can  dine  above 
the  gardens  of  the  Ambassadeurs,  in  the  elegant  lit- 
tle balcony  that  overhangs  a  miniature  stage,  and 
later  look  on  at  the  revue.  Or  we  can  sail  up  the  river 
in  the  balmy  gloaming,  and  eat  a  fiiture  of  smelts 
on  the  terrasse  of  the  Peche  Miraculeuse — there  are  a 
score  of  places  where  we  can  find  a  delicious  meal,  and 
in  each  observe  a  different  world;  running  from  do 
to  do  in  the  scale  of  the  race. 


114  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

I  suggest,  however,  that  we  choose  a  cafe  in  the 
Quarter — not  one  of  the  tiny  eating-houses  like 
Henriette's  where  we  lunched,  but  a  full-fledged, 
prosperous  cafe;  frequented  by  the  better-off  artists 
and  the  upper-class  Quarter  grisettes.  Ten  minutes 
in  the  Underground  lands  us  at  the  door  of  one  of 
the  best-known  of  these  places.  In  the  front  room, 
with  big  windows  open  to  the  street,  is  the  cafe  des 
consommateurs;  in  the  rear,  the  restaurant  and  card 
rooms,  and  a  delightful  galleried  garden,  where  also 
one  may  dine.  Alluring  strains  of  Hoffmann's 
Barcarolle  entice  us  thither  with  all  speed;  and  soon 
our  enthusiasm  is  divided  between  chilled  slices  of 
golden  melon  and  the  caressing  sensuousness  of  the 
maitre  d'orchestre's  violin. 

In  passing,  one  may  note  that  good  music  in  Paris 
is  a  rare  quantity.  Though  many  people  come  to 
study  singing,  there  are  few  vocal  concerts,  and  the 
Touche  and  the  Rouge  are  the  only  orchestras  of  any 
importance.  They  give  weekly  concerts  in  small  halls, 
hardly  bigger  than  an  ordinary-sized  room,  and  the 
handful  of  attendants  smoke  their  fat  porcelain  pipes 
and  extract  cherries  out  of  glasses  of  kirsch,  and 
happily  imagine  themselves  music-lovers.  But  the 
great  artiste  is  an  artist  through  sight  rather  than 
through  sound;  and  even  in  opera,  where  the  drama- 
tic element  is  or  should  be  subservient  to  the  music, 
the  superdramatic  French  are  ill-at-ease  and  ham- 
pered. Some  of  the  performances  at  the  Opera  Co- 
mique  are  delightful,  for  here  the  lighter  pieces  of 
Massenet  and  Debussy  are  given,  with  the  French  lilt 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  115 

and  dash  peculiar  to  these  masters.  But,  at  the  Opera 
itself,  the  Wagnerian  compositions  are  poorly  con- 
ducted, the  audience  uninterested  and  uninteresting; 
and  even  the  beautiful  foyer — which,  since  the  famous 
New  Year's  Eve  balls  have  been  done  away  wdth, 
know^s  no  longer  its  former  splendours — cannot  com- 
pensate for  the  thoroughly  dull  evening  one  endures 
there. 

Far  happier  is  one  listening  to  the  serenades  and 
intermezzos  of  the  cherubic  Alsatian  violinist  at  the 
Quarter  cafe-restaurant.  And,  after  dinner,  he  plays 
solos  out  in  the  cafe  proper,  for  the  same  absorbed 
polyglot  audience  that  has  listened  to -him  for  years. 
Let  us  range  ourselves  in  this  corner  against  the  wall, 
between  the  two  American  lady  artists  of  masculine 
tailoring  and  Kansas  voices,  and  the  fierce-mus- 
tachioed Czek,  mildly  amused  over  a  copy  of  the  Rire. 
Every  seat  in  the  big  double  room  is  taken  now,  and 
we  are  a  varied  crew  of  French  bourgeois,  Russian, 
Norwegian,  and  German  students,  English  and 
American  tourists,  Japanese  attaches  (or  so  one  sup- 
poses from  their  conversation,  in  excellent  French, 
with  our  neighbour  Czek),  and  blond  and  black 
bearded  artists  who  might  be  of  any  nation  except  the 
Oriental. 

They  all  know  each  other,  and  are  exchanging 
jokes  and  cigarettes  over  their  cafe  creme — which 
they  drink,  by  the  way,  out  of  glass  tumblers — and 
paying  goodnaturedly  for  a  hock  for  Suzanne  or 
Madeleine,  whose  hocks  some  other  person  should  be 
paying.     The  room  has  taken  on  the  look  of  a  big 


116  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

family  party,  some  talking,  some  writing  letters, 
others  reading  from  the  shiny  black-covered  comic 
papers;  all  smoking,  and  sipping  absently  now  and 
then  from  their  steaming  glasses  or  little  verves  de 
liqueur.  The  music  drifts  in  soothingly,  between 
spurts  of  conversation,  and  one  is  conscious  of  utter 
contentment  and  well-being. 

Suddenly  a  door  is  flung  open.  In  whirls  a  small 
hurricane,  confined  within  a  royal  purple  coat  and 
skirt;  gives  one  lightning  glance  round  the  circle 
of  surprised  merry-makers,  and  with  a  triumphant 
cry  pounces  on  Suzanne  yonder,  with  the  fury  of  a 
young  virago.  "So!"  pants  the  vixen,  shaking  poor 
Suzanne.  "So  you  thought  to  outwit  me,  you  thought 
to  oust  me,  did  you?  Me,  whom  he  knew  six  months 
before  ever  he  saw  you — me  whom  he  took  to  Havre, 
to  Fontainebleau,  to — ^to — traitress!  Coward!  Scele- 
rate!    Take  that — and  that — and  that!" 

She  slaps  Suzanne  soundly  on  both  cheeks; 
Suzanne  pulls  her  hat  off — each  makes  a  lunge  at  the 
other's  hair.  "Mesdames,  mesdames''  cries  the 
patron,  hurrying  forward.  "Je  vous  en  prie — and 
monsieur,"  reproachfully,  "can  you  do  nothing?" 

Monsieur — the  monsieur  who  kindly,  and  quite 
disinterestedly,  paid  Suzanne's  book — sits  by,  lazily 
tapping  his  fingers  against  the  glass.  "What  would 
you?"  he  says,  with  a  shrug.  "Women — "  another 
shrug — "one  had  as  well  let  them  finish  it." 

But  the  patron  is  by  no  means  of  this  mind.  He 
begins  telling  those  ladies  that  his  house  is  a  serious 
house;  that  his  clients  are  of  the  most  serious,  that 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  117 

he  himelf  absolutely  demands  and  insists  upon  ser- 
iousness; and  that  if  these  ladies  cannot  tranquillize 
themselves  instantly 

But  of  a  sudden  he  halts — pulled  up  short  by  the 
abrupt  halt  of  the  ladies  themselves.  In  the  thick  of 
the  fray  Suzanne  has  flung  contemptuous  explana- 
tion; Gaby,  the  virago,  has  caught  it.  A  truce  is 
declared.  Curt  conversation  takes  place.  Monsieur, 
still  lazily  tapping,  consents  to  confirm  the  defend- 
ant's statement  as  fact.  Gaby,  though  still  suspi- 
cious, consents  to  restore  the  hated  rival's  hat ;  and  in 
ten  minutes  the  three  are  tranquilly  discussing  Cub- 
ism and  a  new  round  of  demi-brunes.  The  audience, 
who  have  gazed  on  the  entire  comedy  with  keen  but 
quite  impartial  interest,  shrug  their  shoulders,  light 
fresh  cigarettes,  and  return  to  their  papers  and  pens. 
Since  the  first  start  of  surprise,  there  has  not  been  a 
murmur  among  them;  only  complete  concentration 
on  the  drama,  which  the  next  minute  they  as  com- 
pletely forget. 

There  are  a  dozen  such  scenes  a  day,  in  one's  wan- 
dering about  Paris ;  that  is,  a  dozen  scenes  as  sudden, 
as  intense,  and  as  quickly  over.  The  every-day  life 
of  the  people  is  so  vivid,  of  such  swift  and  varied  con- 
trast, that  the  theatre  itself,  to  satisfy  them,  must 
overreach  into  melodrama  before  it  rouses.  I  believe 
that  no  other  city  in  the  world,  unless  it  be  the  next 
most  dramatic.  New  York,  could  support  a  theatre 
like  the  Grand  Guignol  for  example.  I  have  seen 
there,  in  one  evening,  gruesomely  realistic  representa- 
tions of  a  plague  scene  in  India ;  the  destruction  of  a 


118  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

submarine,  with  all  the  crew  on  board;  and  the  oper- 
ating-room of  a  hospital,  where  a  woman  is  unneces- 
sarily murdered  to  pay  the  surgeon's  wife's  hat  bill. 

The  French  imagination,  turned  loose  on  drama- 
tic situations,  is  Uke  a  cannibal  before  a  peck  of  mis- 
sionaries; only  instead  of  eating  'em  alive,  the 
Frenchman  makes  them  live — and  diabolically  ac- 
curate. But  not  for  the  doubtful  interest  of 
studying  French  psychology  through  its  horrors,  shall 
we  end  our  day  by  a  visit  to  the  Guignol.  Nor  yet 
to  the  Frangais  or  the  Odeon,  as  we  are  a  bit  tired  to 
follow  Moliere  or  Racine  tonight.  What  do  you  say 
to  looking  in  at  the  cheerful  rowdyism  of  the  Moulin 
Rouge,  and  then  on  for  a  bite  at  one  of  the  restau- 
rants on  "the  Hill"?  It  would  never  do  for  you,  as  a 
self-respecting  American,  to  leave  Paris  without 
properly  "doing"  Montmartre;  and  as  for  me,  I  want 
to  prove  to  you  my  assertion  that  Montmartre  exists 
for  and  off  visiting  strangers  like  ourselves. 

Let  us  make  short  work  of  the  3Ioulin  therefore 
— which  is  neither  more  nor  less  raw  than  the  rest  of 
the  varietes  prepared  for  foreign  consumption — and 
go  on  up  to  the  Place  Pigalle;  to  the  racket  and 
ribaldry  of  the  Cafe  Royal.  Other  night-restaurants 
make  some  pretense  of  silver-gilding  their  vulgarity; 
the  Ahhaye  and  the  Rat  Mort  have  their  diamond 
dust  of  luxury  to  throw  into  one's  eyes.  But  the 
Royal  is  unadulterated  Montmartre:  the  girls,  most 
of  them,  shabby — their  rouge  put  on  without  art; 
the  harsh  red  coats  of  the  tziganes  seemingly  made  of 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  119 

paper,   and  their  songs  lacking  even   the  thinnest 
veneer  of  French  wit. 

In  the  small  low  room  upstairs  fresh  air  is  left  be- 
hind by  those  who  enter.  Instead,  the  heavy-scented 
powder  of  the  dancing  girls,  the  sweet  sickening 
perfume  of  great  baskets  of  roses  on  sale,  and  the 
pervading  odour  of  lobster,  combine  to  assail  us  as 
we  steer  through  the  crowded  room  to  a  table.  These 
last  are  arranged  in  the  familiar  hollow  square  round 
the  wall,  leaving  a  cleared  space  in  the  centre  for 
dancers. 

We  order  supper,  and  then  look  about  us.  It  is 
still  a  different  world  from  the  many  we  have  seen 
today:  a  world  of  "wire-pulled  automatons,"  who 
laugh  dead  laughter,  and  sing  dead  tuneless  songs, 
in  their  clock-work  dance  of  pleasure.  There  is  a 
sinister  host  of  these  puppet-people:  girls  of  seven- 
teen and  eighteen,  with  the  hard,  settled  features  of 
forty;  Englishmen,  very  red  and  embarrassed, 
blatantly  over  for  a  "larky  weed-end";  next  them  a 
mere  baby  of  fourteen,  with  sleek  curls  to  her  shoul- 
ders, and  a  slazy  blue  frock  to  her  knees — chattering 
shrilly  to  the  Polish  Jew  with  the  pasty  white  face, 
and  the  three  pasty-white  necks  rolling  over  his  collar. 
Yonder,  a  group  of  Brazilians,  most  of  them  very 
boys,  who  have  captured  the  prettiest  danseuse  and 
carried  her  off  for  champagne ;  beyond  them,  torpid- 
eyed  Germans  seeking  shatzkinder,  and  American 
drummers  by  the  dozen — their  feet  on  the  bar-rail, 
their  hats  on  the  back  of  their  heads,  grinning  half 


120  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

sheepishly  like  nasty  little  boys  on  a  forbidden  hol- 
iday. 

Well,  does  it  amuse  you — this  "typical  slice  of 
French  life,"  as  the  guidebooks  label  it?  And  what 
of  the  dances — but,  rather  than  look  at  them,  let  us 
talk  to  this  girl  who  is  passing.  She  seems  different 
from  the  rest,  in  her  dark  "tailor-made"  and  plain 
white  shirt;  among  the  satin  and  tinsel  of  the  other 
women,  her  costume  and  her  white,  almost  trans- 
parent face  cry  attention  to  themselves  by  very  mod- 
esty. Perhaps  she  will  talk  real  talk;  occasionally — 
when  she  finds  she  has  nothing  to  gain  as  marionette 
— one  of  them  will. 

We  ask  her  to  have  some  champagne.  Noncha- 
lantly she  accepts,  and  sits  down.  Is  she  new  at  the 
Royal?  is  the  leading  question.  Oh  no,  she  has  been 
coming  here  for  nearly  a  year.  But  this  gentleman 
is  new.  (quickly)  ?  You  reply,  with  a  certain  intona- 
tion, that  you  will  always  be  "new" — ^that  you  will  not 
come  again.  She  sends  you  a  searching  side-glance 
— and  understands. 

The  preliminaries  clearly  disposed  of,  we  get  to 
the  meat  of  things ;  baldly  and  with  no  apology,  now 
that  we  have  thrown  down  our  hand.  What  is  she 
doing  here?  Can't  she  find  a  better  place?  Has  she 
no  family  to  help  her? 

She  smiles,  flicks  the  ash  from  her  cigarette.  But 
yes,  she  has  a  family :  a  blind  mother,  two  little  sisters, 
and  a  half-witted  brother.  She  is  sole  bread-winner 
for  the  lot.  As  for  this  place — a  shrug,  laconic,  un- 
resentful,  as  she  throws  a  glance  round  the  murky 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  121 

room — it  is  not  chiCj  true  it  is  second-rate;  but  the 
commissions  are  good,  and  clothes  here  do  not  cost 
much,  and —  "the  simple  fact,"  says  she,  gazing 
quietly  over  our  shoulder  into  the  glass,  is,  "that  to 
work  any  trade  successfully,  one  must  have  the 
proper  tools.  I  was  young,  or  I  should  have  thought 
of  that  before  I  began." 

You  gasp,  under  your  breath.  This  French  girl, 
when  she  draws  aside  the  curtain,  draws  it  to  reveal — 
with  terrible  sincerity — a  thin  white  face.  She  tells 
no  tale  of  an  attempt  to  live  "honestly,"  of  pitiful 
struggles  as  dressmaker,  shop-girl,  and  the  rest  of  the 
sentimental  dodges.  She  bares  her  tragedy  simply 
as  only  a  French  person  can;  and  it  is  that  she  has 
not  the  proper  tools ! 

You  mumble  something  meant  to  be  consoling, 
and  shamefacedly  slip  a  louis  under  her  plate.  She 
accepts  it  with  no  trumped-up  emotion,  but  a  frank 
"mercir  And  evidently  fearing  to  bore  us,  moves 
away  with  the  nonchalance  characteristic  of  her  type. 

When  she  is  gone,  we  are  suddenly  aware  of  want- 
ing to  leave.  For,  among  the  grinning  ghosts,  reality 
has  passed;  touching  with  her  grim  wand  the  pup- 
pets, to  show  them  as  naked  souls — each  with  its  un- 
covered reason.  So  seen,  they  send  a  shudder  through 
us :  the  baby-faced  girl  in  her  blue  frock,  now  sleepily 
batting  kohl  from  her  eyes  in  desperate  effort  to  re- 
main amusing;  the  dancing-girls  ^vith  their  high  ner- 
vous laughter;  the  set,  determined  smiles  of  the 
better-dressed  cocottes:  it  is  the  artist  playing  in  the 
meanest  of  all  theatres,  the  artist  born  without  the 


182  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

"proper  tools,"  or  who  lost  hers,  but  playing  stoically 
to  the  end. 

And  the  tziganes  are  twanging  deafening  accom- 
paniment on  their  guitars,  and  shouting  "Patita"  at 
the  top  of  their  execrable  voices ;  and  smoke  and  the 
thick  smell  of  sauces  and  the  scent  of  the  women's 
sachet  hangs  in  sickening  haze  through  the  place. 
Let  us  go — let  us  flee  from  it !  For  this  is  not  Paris ; 
it  is  the  harlot's  house :  and  that  is  the  loathsome  prop- 
erty of  the  universe. 

We  rush  from  it  out  into  the  silent  street — the  air 
strikes  sharp  and  fresh  upon  our  faces.  For  it  rains, 
a  pearly  mist,  and  the  thousand  lights  make  rainbows 
on  the  flat  wet  flags  of  paving.  We  hail  a  cab,  but 
leave  the  top  open  to  the  grateful  dampish  cool ;  and 
glide  away  down  the  slippery  hill  into  what  looks 
like  dawn. 

But  it  is  only  other  lights — mist-veiled,  and  gleam- 
ing more  intimately  now;  like  the  gems  of  a  woman 
who  has  gone  to  her  boudoir,  but  not  yet  taken  off  her 
jewels.  The  woman  calls,  softly.  Can  you  keep 
yourself  from  answering?  You  may  have  your  loy- 
alty to  faithful  London,  the  Comrade ;  you  may  burn 
your  reverential  candle  before  the  mystic  vestal, 
Rome ;  or  shout  yourself  hoarse  before  the  triumph  of 
New  York,  the  star:  but  can  you  resist  the  tugging, 
glowing,  multiple  allurement  of  everyman's  One 
Woman,  Paris? 

Can  you  go  back  over  this  night  when  her  jewels 
flashed  for  you  into  the  Seine,  when  the  rich  rumble 
of  her  voice  called  to  you  across  the  bridges,  when  the 


THE    CURTAIN    RISES  123 

cool,  sweet  smell  and  the  throb  and  cling  of  her  were 
for  you — you;  and  not  thrill  to  her  and  yearn  for  her, 
as  men  in  spite  of  their  inconstancy  have  thrilled  and 
yearned  and  come  back  to  One  out  of  all  the  rest, 
throughout  the  history  of  women? 

I  hope  that  you  cannot.  For,  as  you  return  again 
and  again,  the  "make-up"  of  the  woman  fades;  the 
great  artist  lays  aside  the  cautious  mask,  steps  down 
from  the  stage,  and  for  you  becomes  that  greatest  of 
all:  a  simple  human  being. 


Ill 

THE  CHILDREN'S  PERFORMANCE 

(Vienna) 


THE  PLAYHOUSE 

To  see  Vienna  properly,  one  should  be  eighteen, 
and  a  young  person  of  good  looks  and  discretion. 
Patsy  was  all  this,  and  I,  being  Patsy's  uncle,  was  al- 
lowed my  first  peep  at  the  j  oiliest  of  cities  through 
her  lunettes  de  rose.  It  was  a  bleak,  grey  morning 
in  January — with  the  mercury  at  several  degrees  be- 
low zero — when  we  rattled  through  the  quiet  streets 
to  our  hotel. 

"Ugh!"  said  Patsy,  some  three  minutes  after  we 
had  left  the  station,  "what  a  horrid  dreary  place!" 

I  suggested  deprecatingly  that  places  had  a  fash- 
ion of  so  appearing  at  ten  after  seven  in  the  morning. 

"Yes,  but  look  at  those  great,  gloomy  buildings 
and  you  know,  Uncle  Peter,  you  always  say  that  what 
people  build  betrays  what  they  are." 

"Dear  me,  Patsy,  do  I  say  that?"  It  is  alarming 
to  be  confronted  with  one's  platitudes  before  break- 
fast! 

"Yes  (emphatically).  Well,  I  think  that,  if  the 
Viennese  are  like  their  architecture,  they  must  be  ap- 
pallingly dull!"  And  Patsy  wraps  her  furs  and  an  air 
of  bitter  disappointment  round  her,  and  subsides  into 
silence. 

127 


128  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WOULD 

I  am  secretly  apprehensive.  To  carry  off  a  young 
lady  of  capricious  fancy  and  unquestionable  loveli- 
ness, from  the  thick  of  the  balls  and  parties  of  her 
first  season,  under  oath  that  she  shall  enjoy  even 
giddier  gayety  in  the  Austrian  Carnival;  and  to  be- 
hold her  gravely  displeased  with  the  very  bricks  and 
stones  of  the  place — you  will  admit  the  situation 
called  for  anxiety. 

I  did  what  I  always  do  in  such  a  case,  and  with  such 
a  young  lady:  fed  her — as  delectable  and  extensive  a 
breakfast  as  I  could  command;  and  then  sent  for  a 
young  man.  To  be  exact,  I  had  taken  this  latter  pre- 
caution two  or  three  days  before,  being  not  unac- 
quainted with  Patsy's  psychology  and  predilections. 
The  young  man  arrived — an  officer  (it  is  always  best 
to  get  an  officer  when  one  can)  of  no  mean  propor- 
tions in  his  dashing  blue  uniform  and  smart  helmet. 
I  introduced  him  to  Patsy  as  the  son  of  my  friend 

Count  H ,  former  minister  to  the  United  States. 

Patsy  smiled — as  Patsy  can,  and  gave  him  a  dainty 
three  fingers.  Captain  Max  clicked  his  heels  together, 
bowed  from  his  magnificent  waist,  and  kissed  her 
hand  with  an  impressive:  "Icli  liabe  die  Elire,  gnddige 
fi'dideinr  And  we  went  to  watch  Guard  Change  in 
the  Burg. 

It  is  fascinating  enough  in  itself,  this  old  court- 
yard with  its  many  gates,  and  weather-beaten  walls 
surrounding  the  residence  of  the  Hapsburg  princes; 
and  when  filled  with  the  Emperor's  Guards,  in  their 
grey  and  scarlet,  and  the  rousing  music  of  the  royal 
band — to  say  nothing  of  that  fierce  white-whiskered 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         129 

old  presence  in  the  window  above,  surrounded  by  his 
brilliant  gentlemen — I  assure  you  it  can  thrill  the 
heart  of  even  an  uncle ! 

Nowhere  as  in  this  ancient  stronghold,  under  the 
gaze  of  those  stern,  shaggy-browed  old  eyes,  does  the 
tragic  history  of  Austria  so  haunt  one.  Admitting 
only  the  figures  and  episodes  of  the  life  of  this  pres- 
ent Emperor,  one  is  assailed  by  the  memory  of 
Elizabeth — his  Empress — and  her  shameful  assassi- 
nation at  Geneva;  the  ghastly  mystery  of  the  death  of 
Crown  Prince  Rudolf,  the  one  son  of  the  ill-starred 
royal  pair;  and  the  hardships  and  struggles  of  Maria 
Christina  (the  Emperor's  sister)  in  Spain,  and  the 
terrible  murder  of  his  brother  Maximilian — sent 
forth  in  splendour  to  be  Emperor  of  JNIexico,  but 
marked  for  death  from  the  first.  One  sees  the  desolate 
mad  figure  of  his  widow  shut  within  the  wild  beauty 
of  Castle  Mirmar,  and  wonders  only  how  the  Em- 
peror himself  can  have  escaped  her  fate.  Bereft  of  his 
beautiful  wife,  the  son  he  idolized,  the  brother  he  him- 
self unknowingly  sent  to  his  destruction,  Francis 
Joseph  of  Austria  is  at  once  the  most  solitary  and  in- 
domitable personality  among  the  rulers  of  the  world 
today.  Never,  through  all  his  misfortunes,  has  his 
iron  pride  given  way  to  complaint  or  regret;  and 
never  has  he  confessed  himself  beaten. 

At  the  age  of  eighty- four,  he  still  sits  erect  in  his 
saddle,  and  commands  with  characteristic  imperious 
fire.  The  people  sometimes  laugh  at  his  eccentricities, 
and  are  impatient  of  his  old-fashioned  ideas  on  cer- 
tain things,  but  the  tone  in  which  they  pronounce  his 


130  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

title,  "Unser  Kaiser,"  conveys  their  acceptance  of  his 
divine  right  as  the  pivot  of  their  universe.  In  the 
recent  war  of  the  Balkan  Allies,  when  the  progres- 
sive Austrian  party  under  Archduke  Ferdinand 
clamoured  against  the  conservative  policy  of  the 
crown,  the  great  mass  of  the  people  stood  loyally  by 
the  Emperor — and  so  perhaps  were  saved  the  horrors 
and  draining  expense  of  a  war  of  their  own. 

Austria  is  always  in  a  ferment  of  one  kind  or  an- 
other, composite  as  she  is  of  half  a  dozen  distinct  and 
antagonistic  strains  of  blood  that  have  yet  to  be  really 
amalgamated;  but  her  Grand  Old  Man  does  his  best 
to  keep  peace  between  his  Slavs  and  Hungarians, 
Bohemians  and  Poles — and  generally  succeeds.  He 
loves  the  pomp  attached  to  his  imperial  prerogative, 
and  is  never  so  happy  as  when  the  centre  of  some  elab- 
orate ceremonial  in  one  of  his  kingdoms.  It  tickles 
his  vanity  always  to  have  extravagant  precautions 
taken  for  his  safety;  and  on  the  days  when  he  drives 
to  Schonbrunn  (his  favourite  country  residence)  two 
plain  clothes  men  and  two  uniformed  guards  are  sta- 
tioned at  every  block  of  the  entire  way  from  the  Burg 
to  the  palace.  Punctuality  is  another  of  his  strong 
points;  he  departs  or  arrives  on  the  dot  of  the  hour 
appointed,  and  demands  the  same  exactness  of  the 
officials  and  detectives  along  the  road. 

With  all  his  dignity,  he  is  an  old  person  with  a 
temper,  and  an  obstinacy  hard  to  subdue.  During  one 
of  his  recent  illnesses  he  absolutely  refused  to  be 
shaved;  also,  what  was  more  important,  to  eat.  The 
entire   palace   was   in    despair,    when    Mademoiselle 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         131 

Z arrived  one  afternoon  on  her  daily  visit.    She  is 

a  homely  lady  (formerly  a  great  actress)  of  almost  as 
many  years  as  the  Emperor,  and  comes  every  day 
to  play  chess  with  him.  When  she  heard  of  his  stub- 
borness  on  this  particular  occasion,  she  marched  into 
the  imperial  presence  with  a  bowl  of  soup  and  some 
biscuits,  and  called  out:  "Come,  Franz  Joseph,  don't 
be  a  fool!    Sit  up  and  eat." 

The  Emperor  gave  her  one  furious  look — and 
obeyed;  afterwards  meekly  suffering  himself  to  be 
shaved  and  put  in  proper  order  as  an  invalid.  He  and 
the  doughty  old  artiste  have  been  close  friends  for 
forty  years,  and  he  is  fond  of  remarking  that  there  is 
one  woman  in  the  world  who  makes  up  in  brains  what 
she  lacks  in  features.  I  should  like  to  see  the  two 
shrewd  old  heads  over  their  chess. 

Instead,  I  must  remember  my  responsibilities,  and 
come  back  to  Patsy  and  her  hauptmann.  He  is 
bending  towards  her  solicitously;  suggesting  a  walk 
in  the  Garden,  a  cup  of  chocolate  at  Demel's,  the 
concert  at  the  Volksgarten  after  lunch,  perhaps  in 
the  evening  some  skating  at  his  club?  Patsy  finds 
time  to  whisper  to  me  that  she  thinks  the  Viennese 
not  too  dull,  after  all.  She  hears  they  even  have  balls 
— masked  balls,  in  fancy  dress,  on  the  ice.  Doesn't 
Uncle  Peter  think  waltzing  on  ice  sounds  rather 
nice? 

Uncle  Peter,  who  has  rheumatism,  feebly  agrees 
that  it  does  sound  very  nice ;  and  falls  into  his  proper 
background  as  chaperone,  while  the  young  people 
dart  ahead  down  the  narrow  street  to  the  Garden. 


132  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

Here,  in  the  fashionable  short  promenade,  an  exhila- 
rating sense  of  prosperity  fills  the  air.  There  is  the 
soft  elegance  of  furs,  the  scent  of  violets,  the  occa- 
sional gleam  of  scarlet  lining  an  officer's  picturesque 
white  cloak ;  brilliant  shops  draw  their  knots  of  pretty 
women  to  the  windows,  well  set-up  men  stroll  by  in 
long  fur  coats  or  drive  their  own  superb  horses  to  and 
fro :  all  is  easy,  gay  and  care- free,  betokening  an  idle 
happiness. 

"And  there  are  no  beggars,"  sighs  Patsy  con- 
tentedly, "I  am  glad  of  that!" 

It  is  true — and  rather  extraordinary  for  a  city  of 
almost  two  million  inhabitants ;  but,  on  the  surface  at 
least,  there  seem  to  be  no  actually  poor  people  in 
Vienna.  The  more  one  knows  the  place  the  more  one 
is  impressed  with  the  fact  that,  while  the  upper  classes 
are  extravagant  and  show-loving,  the  lower  seem  to 
have  imbibed  a  spirit  of  cheerful  thrift  which  keeps 
them  from  real  poverty.  They  have  enough  to  eat 
and  to  wear,  and  for  an  occasional  bit  of  pleasure; 
what  more,  their  good-humoured  faces  seem  to  ask, 
could  they  want? 

Only  the  very  wealthy  Viennese  can  afford  a 
house  to  himself.  The  great  majority  of  people  rent 
a  story,  or  half  a  story,  of  the  huge  residence  build- 
ings that  give  the  city  its  montonously  gloomy  look. 
Row  after  row  of  these  line  the  streets,  all  the  same 
height  and  the  same  style;  but  in  no  way  do  they  re- 
semble the  typical  "apartments"  of  England,  Amer- 
ica or  France.  Each  dwelling  in  itself  is  the  size  of  a 
house  of  moderate  dimensions,  with  its  own  inner 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         133 

stairways  and  separate  floors.  There  are  certain  con- 
veniences in  the  arrangement,  hut  I  cannot  say  I  find 
it  on  the  whole  satisfactory.  One  has  constantly  the 
feeling  of  having  strayed  into  a  public  building  to 
eat  and  sleep ;  which  causes  one  to  do  both  under  a  de- 
pressing sense  of  apology. 

The  people  unconsciously  admit  this  lack  of  home 
attraction  by  their  incessant  attendance  at  cafes. 
While  the  Frenchman  or  the  Spaniard  spends  an  hour 
a  day  in  his  favourite  cafe,  chatting  with  friends,  the 
Viennese  spends  an  entire  morning,  afternoon  or 
evening — or  all  three.  Coffee  or  chocolate  with 
whipped  cream  (the  famous  Wiener  Melange)  is  the 
usual  drink  with  which  he  pays  for  his  seat,  and  the 
illustrated  papers  that  are  his  obsession.  He,  or 
JNladame  his  friend,  will  remain  in  a  comfortable 
corner  of  the  window  hour  after  hour,  reading  and 
smoking,  smoking  and  reading;  only  looking  up  to 
sip  chocolate,  or  to  stare  at  some  newcomer.  The 
cafe,  also  the  constant  cigarette-smoking,  is  as  much 
a  habit  with  the  women  of  Vienna  as  with  the  men. 
And  one  is  not  surprised  to  hear  that  there  are  over 
six  hundred  of  these  (literally)  "coffee-houses"  in 
the  city,  and  that  all  of  them  are  continually  full. 

Some  of  the  larger  establishments  provide  excel- 
lent music — and  here  we  are  fingering  the  edges  of 
Viennese  character  and  culture:  next  to  (or  along 
with)  love  of  gayety  go  a  love  and  understanding 
of  music,  that  amounts  almost  to  a  passion.  Besides 
the  cafe  concerts,  there  are  military  concerts,  phil- 
harmonic concerts  and  symphony  concerts;  to  say 


184  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

1  lothing  of  the  host  of  notable  recitals  crowding  one 
another  for  attention. 

One  is  struck  bj^  the  enormous  and  enthusiastic 
patronage  given  to  these  affairs,  each  and  all.  In 
Anglo-Saxon  countries  the  ventures  of  a  concert- 
manager  are  at  best  precarious,  and,  in  spite  of  the 
high  price  of  tickets,  frequently  result  in  a  dead  loss. 
An  Anglo-Saxon  audience  is  tepid,  for  both  music 
and  drama,  being  roused  to  fervour  not  by  either  art 
in  itself,  but  only  by  a  great  name  made  actual  upon 
the  stage.  In  Germany  music  is  a  religion;  in 
Vienna  there  is  added  a  fire  and  dash  which  make  it 
no  less  pure,  while  more  seductive.  From  operette  to 
concerto,  the  Viennese  run  the  gamut  of  musical  ex- 
pression, in  every  phase  pre-eminent. 

Nor  have  they  an  ounce  of  the  artistic  snobbish- 
ness made  fashionable  by  peoples  with  whom  music 
is  an  acquired  taste  rather  than  an  instinct.  They  are 
as  frank  in  enjoyment  of  "The  Merry  Widow"  as 
of  a  Strauss  recital  with  the  master  conducting;  be- 
cause they  regard  each  as  a  high  art  unto  itself. 
There  is  no  aristocracy  of  music,  and  so  there  is  no 
commercialism  to  degrade  it.  One  may  hear  grand 
opera  from  an  excellent  seat  for  fifty  cents;  or  the 
Philharmonic  Orchestra,  with  Weingartner  conduct- 
ing, for  the  same  price.  The  secret  of  the  whole  sys- 
tem is  that  to  the  Viennese  good  music  is  not  a 
luxury,  but  food  and  drink  and  essential  to  life;  and 
therefore  to  be  had  by  everyone. 

Concert  audiences  are  attentive  to  a  degree,  and 
during  the  performance  the  slightest  disturbing  sound 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         135 

is  sternly  hissed.  This  is  true  even  in  the  public 
parks  where  the  people  listen  in  crowds  to  the  fine 
military  bands  that  play  every  day.  While  at  the 
Volksgarten  (frequented  by  the  middle  classes  and 
by  nobility  as  well)  Patsy  was  crushed  on  her  first 
afternoon  by  the  stertorous  rebuke  of  a  wicncrische 
dowager,  because  the  child  removed  her  gloves  during 
the  overture ! 

"Disagreeable  old  thing,"  grumbled  Patsy,  when 
it  was  finished,  "doesn't  she  know  I  can't  hear  with 
my  gloves  on?" 

Captain  Max,  in  a  tumult  of  perturbation  over  the 
episode,  solemnly  suggested  that  he  convey  this  un- 
happy fact  to  the  good  lady.  But  Patsy's  naughty 
mouth  was  twitching  at  the  corners,  and  she  said  she 
had  rather  he  ordered  chocolate.  She  has  a  conscience 
somewhere,  has  Patsy;  in  spite  of  being  a  pretty 
woman. 

We  drank  our  delicious  brew  of  Melange  be- 
tween Beethoven  and  Bach,  and  had  another  after 
the  Schiunann  Symphony — being  seated  like  every- 
one else  at  one  of  the  little  tables  that  fill  the  Volks- 
garten. This  is  under  cover  in  winter,  and  three  times 
a  week  indoor  classical  concerts  are  held,  under  the 
direction  of  the  leading  conductors.  Ladies  bring 
their  crochet,  young  girls  their  gallants;  and  during 
the  intermissions  it  is  a  lively  scene,  when  tables  are 
pushed  together,  waiters  hurry  to  and  fro  with  the 
creamy  chocolate,  or  big  frothing  seidels  of  Miinch- 
ener,  and  conversation  and  good  cheer  hum  all  round. 

Let  the  orchestra  reappear,  however,  and  there  is 


136  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

silence — so  prompt  as  to  be  almost  comical.  Sen- 
tences are  left  unfinished,  chairs  are  hastily  and  noise- 
lessly shoved  back,  and  the  buzzing  crowd  of  two 
minutes  ago  is  still  as  a  pin;  alert  for  the  first  note 
of  music.  The  tickets  for  these  symphonious  feasts 
cost  thirty  cents,  but  the  audience  could  not  show 
more  devoted  attention  (or  get  finer  return)  if  they 
had  paid  five  dollars. 

Here,  as  everywhere  in  Vienna,  one  is  impressed 
with  the  good  looks  and  attractiveness  of  the  people 
in  general.  In  their  careful  grooming  and  prevailing 
air  of  prosperity,  they  bear  a  distinct  resemblance  to 
Americans;  and  one  may  go  deeper  under  the  sur- 
face and  find  a  reason  for  this  in  the  highly  complex 
mixture  of  race  in  both  nations.  There  is  the  same 
tall,  rather  aggressive  build  among  the  men ;  the  same 
piquant  features,  bright  hair  and  pretty  colouring 
among  the  women  of  the  two  countries.  And,  to  go 
further,  there  is  the  same  supreme  fondness  for  dress 
and  outward  show,  that  results  in  reckless  extrava- 
gance. 

With  the  Viennese,  however,  this  trait  is  not  sub- 
jective— i.  e.  to  create  a  personal  impression — but 
simply  part  and  parcel  of  the  central  aim  of  their 
existence:  to  have  a  good  time,  and  enjoy  life  to  the 
fullest.  They  are  by  no  means  a  people  with  a  pur- 
pose, like  Americans;  they  have  neither  the  desire, 
nor  the  shrewdness,  nor  the  ambition  to  make  some- 
thing remarkable  of  themselves.  Rather  do  they 
frolic  through  life  like  thoughtless  children;  laugh- 
ing, crying,  falling  down  and  picking  themselves  up 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE  137 

— only  to  fall  again ;  but  always  good-natured,  kindly 
and  gay,  with  a  happy-go-lucky  cheerfulness  that 
is  very  appealing  as  well  as  contagious  whilst  one  is 
among  them. 

There  is  none  of  the  studied  courtesy  of  the  Paris- 
ian, nor  yet  his  studied  elegance;  but  a  bright  spon- 
taneity both  in  outward  effect  and  natural  manner, 
which  shows  itself  in  many  captivating  little  customs 
of  everyday.  Take  for  instance  the  pretty  fashion  of 
kissing  a  lady's  hand:  in  France  this  is  confined  to 
occasions  of  ceremony,  and  so  creates  at  once  an 
atmosphere  of  the  formal;  in  Vienna  it  is  the  ordi- 
nary expression  of  joyous  welcome,  so  that  even  the 
shop-keepers,  on  the  entrance  of  a  lady  customer,  ex- 
claim :  "Kuss  die  Hand,  gnddige  Frau!"  While  to  a 
gentleman  they  declare:  "I  have  the  honour  (to 
greet  you)  meinherr!" 

Everyone  is  anxious  to  please,  and  quick  to  help 
the  stranger  in  his  struggles  with  language.  As  in 
Bavaria,  the  German  spoken  is  softened  of  its  orig- 
inal starchiness;  so  that  mddchen  becomes  mddl,  bis- 
chen  bissell,  etc.  Strict  Hanoverians  scorn  such 
vandalism,  but  in  the  mouth  of  the  gentler-tongued 
Southerners  it  is  very  pretty.  The  "low  dialect"  of 
the  people,  that  is,  the  typical  wienerisch,  is  an  ap- 
palling jargon  quite  incomprehensible  to  the  for- 
eigner. But  kindliness,  the  language  spoken  by  one 
and  all  of  the  warm-hearted  Viennese,  is  everywhere 
recognized  and  appreciated. 

Patsy  assures  me  that,  even  in  their  impertinences, 
the  young  blades  of  the  town  are  never  crass;  but 


138  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

show,  rather,  a  lively  humour  and  child-like  interest 
in  the  lady  of  their  admiration.  I  well  remember  that 
first  evening,  after  the  hauptmann  had  left  us,  when 
my  niece  told  me  seriously  that  she  was  convinced  of 
the  grave  libel  cast  on  Austrians  as  a  whole  and 
Austrian  officers  in  particular. 

"You  know,  Uncle  Peter,"  says  she,  swinging  to 
my  arm,  as  we  enter  our  hotel,  "they  say  they  are  hor- 
rid and  dissipated,  and  will  take  the  first  opportunity 
to  say  shocking  things  to  a  girl.  But  I  think  they  are 
far  too  clever  for  that,  besides  too  fine.  I  am  sure 
they  know  what  one  is,  the  minute  they  look  at  one; 
and  behave  accordingly.  Don't  you,"  adds  Patsy 
anxiously,  "think  so  too.  Uncle  Peter?" 

"Perhaps,  perhaps,"  I  return  dubiously,  "but 
there's  their  architecture,  you  know.  You  can't  get 
round  that.     What  people  build — " 

A  slim  hand  is  clapped  over  my  mouth.  And, 
"you  are  to  remember  please,"  says  Patsy  severely, 
"we  are  talking  now  not  of  architects  but  of  offi- 
cers." 

It  was  true.  And,  singularly,  we  have  been  talk- 
ing of  them  a  good  deal  ever  since. 


II 

THE  PLAYERS  WHO  NEVER  GROW  OLD 

Not  many  days  after  our  establishment  in  the 
Carnival  City,  Patsy  had  her  first  experience  with  the 
smart  "masher"  and  his  unique  httle  game.  I  being 
by  no  means  bred  to  chaperoning,  and  in  all  respects, 
besides,  immorally  modern,  allowed  the  young  lady 
to  go  round  the  corner  to  a  sweet-shop  unaccom- 
panied. She  came  back  with  a  high  colour  instead  of 
caramels,  and — no,  there  is  no  way  of  softening  it — 
she  was  giggling. 

Patsy  never  giggles  unless  something  scandalous 
has  happened.  "What's  the  matter?"  I  asked,  in- 
stantly alarmed. 

She  tumbled  into  a  chair,  laughing  helplessly. 
"The — the  funniest  thing,"  she  began,  gasping. 

"A  man,  I  suppose?" 

Patsy  stopped  laughing,  and  regarded  me  ad- 
miringly. "What  an  analyst  you  are,  Uncle  Peter! 
Yes,  of  course  a  man;  but — " 

"Did  he  follow  you — did  he  speak  to  you?"  I 
may  be  modern,  but  I  had  one  eye  on  my  hat  and 
overcoat. 

Patsy  giggled  again.    "No — oh  no,  Uncle  Peter. 

139 


140  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

He  didn't  follow  me,  he  went  ahead  of  me ;  and,  when 
I  reached  the  corner,  there  he  was  standing,  hat  in 
hand,  with  the  most  injured  air — as  though  our  ap- 
pointment was  for  half  past  two  and  I  had  kept  him 
waiting  quite  an  hour !  His  expression  was  perfectly 
heavenly — plaintive  resignation  just  giving  way  to 
radiant  delight — I  can't  think  how  he  managed  it  on 
such  short  notice.  Probably  by  extensive  practice  be- 
fore the  glass. 

Anyhow,  there  was  one  moment  of  awful  appre- 
hension for  him,  just  as  I  came  up;  and  then — the 
most  crestfallen  disappointment  you  can  imagine. 
He  had  arranged  everything  so  considerately  and 
subtly  for  me,  and  I,  all  unconscious  of  him,  passed 
on !  I  didn't  dare  look  back,  but  out  of  the  tail  of  my 
eye  I  could  see  his  chagrin  as  I  disappeared — into  the 
side  entrance  of  the  hotel.  All  that  art  gone  for  noth- 
ing I  suppose  he  thought ;  and  to  be  begun  over  again 
at  the  next  corner,"  added  Patsy,  who  is  a  young 
woman  of  rather  terrible  discernment,  at  times. 

"But  it  is  nice  of  them  not  to  speak,  isn't  it?"  she 
said.  "It  shows  how  really  clever  they  are.  No  Eng- 
lishman or  Frenchman  of  the  same  er — proclivities 
would  have  been  as  subtle." 

Nor  as  dangerous,  thinks  Uncle  Peter  to  himself, 
with  a  promise  to  curb  his  modernity  for  the  future. 
It  is  all  very  amusing,  this  manoeuvre  of  the  flirta- 
tious Viennese  male;  and,  since  Patsy's  encounter,  I 
have  seen  it  so  many  times  as  to  know  it  to  be  typical ; 
but  in  its  very  refinement  lies  its  evil.  If  the  Aus- 
trian, even  in  his  vices,  were  not  so  free  from  crudity 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE  141 

— so  transparently  naive,  his  attraction  would  be 
halved — if  not  lost  entirely.  But  Patsy  was  right  in 
her  surmise  that  he  can  place  a  woman  at  a  glance; 
and  if  he  ventures  to  lead  her  a  bit  further  than  her 
looks  suggest,  and  than  he  afterwards  finds  possible, 
he  is  quick  to  realize  his  mistake  and  if  he  can  to  make 
reparation. 

As  a  student,  like  his  German  cousin,  he  lives  in 
frank  unmorality.  There  are  thousands  of  students 
in  Vienna — students  at  the  universities,  medical  stu- 
dents, music  students — each  with  his  schatzkind,  who 
often  shares  his  studies  as  well  as  his  garret.  This 
thoroughly  cosmopolitan  set  of  young  people  plays 
a  distinct  part  in  the  free  and  easy  jollity  of  the  city 
as  a  whole.  You  see  them  in  the  streets  and  cafes,  in 
the  topmost  gallery  at  the  Opera,  and  forming  en- 
thusiastic groups  at  all  concerts;  their  shabby  velve- 
teens a  nice  contrast  with  their  vivid,  impressionable 
faces. 

During  Carnival  they  are  natural  leaders  in  the 
routs  and  festivities ;  this  entire  season  is  for  them  one 
rollicking  fancy-dress  ball.  They  may  go  hungry, 
but  they  can  always  arrange  a  new  and  clever  cos- 
tume; and  one  meets  them  coming  home  arm-in-arm 
through  the  dusk,  carrying  bulky  parcels  and  hum- 
ming the  waltz  from  the  latest  o^^erette.  They  smile 
at  everybody,  and  everybody  smiles  back,  and  un- 
consciously starts  humming  too.  Patsy  says  there  is 
something  about  dusk,  and  big  packages,  and  soft- 
falling  snow  that  makes  one  hum.    I  feared  from  the 


142  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

first  that  this  was  a  demorahzing  atmosphere  for 
Patsy. 

It  would  have  been  different  if  we  hadn't  known 
people.  But  we  did  know  people — a  delightful  hand- 
ful, eager  to  lavish  their  boundless  hospitality  on  the 
wunderschones  mddl.  And  then  there  was  Captain 
Max,  whose  marvellous  uniforms  and  crisp  black 
moustache  soon  became  as  familiar  to  our  hotel  as 
the  bow  of  the  head  waiter.  Two  or  three  days  after 
our  arrival,  Captain  Max  and  his  mother  took  Patsy 
to  her  first  Viennese  ball.  I  stayed  at  home  to  nurse 
my  rheumatism,  which  the  freezing  temperature  and 
constant  snow  had  not  improved.  But  I  was  waiting 
by  our  sitting-room  fire  to  "hear  all  about  it,"  when 
Patsy  returned  at  half  past  three — her  arms  full  of 
roses,  her  auburn  head  less  strictly  coiff  ed  than  when 
she  sallied  forth. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Peter!"  She  kissed  me  at  her  fa- 
vourite angle  somewhere  behind  the  ear,  and  sank 
into  a  cushion  with  her  chiffons  like  a  flower  into  its 
petals. 

"Well,  well,  did  you  amuse  yourself?  The 
Countess  wasn't  difficult?" 

"She  was  a  duck!  (I  should  no  more  think  of 
apologizing  for  Patsy's  English  than  for  her  re- 
trousse nose.  Both,  as  my  French  friend  says,  in- 
trigue me  infinitely.)  She  danced  harder  than 
anyone,  and  lieher  Himmel/'  says  Patsy  with  a  gusty 
sigh,  "how  they  do  dance!  But  I'll  begin  at  the  be- 
ginning and  tell  you  everything. 

"Of  course  you  know  it  was  this  club  Captain  Max 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         143 

belongs  to,  and  that  they  dance  every  month  in  the 
ball-rooms  of  the  different  hotels.  There  are  only 
thirty  or  forty  members  in  the  club,  so  it's  nice  and 
small — not  one  of  those  herd  affairs.  Most  of  the 
people  had  arrived  before  us,  and  were  sitting  in  the 
galleries  round  the  ball-room;  and  before  ever  the 
dancing  began.  Uncle  Peter,  they  all  were  eating  and 
drinking  things.  The  galleries  are  raised  by  just  a 
few  steps  from  the  floor  of  the  room  itself,  and  there 
are  lots  of  tables  where  continuous  supper  goes  on — 
really,  one  is  expected  to  eat  something  between 
every  two  dances. 

"Fancy,  Uncle  Peter,  one  is  busily  dissecting  a 
quail  when  one's  partner  appears;  one  finishes  the 
waltz,  and  returns  to  take  another  bite,  only  to  be 
interrupted  again,  and  carried  off.  It  is  provoking! 
But  the  tables  are  convenient  as  an  anchor  to  steer  for 
and  much  more  fun  for  the  chaperones,  I  should 
think,  than  those  dreary  chairs  against  the  wall,  at 
home. 

"I  haven't  told  you  the  appalling  ordeal  of  actu- 
ally arriving,  however.  Every  girl  with  her  escort, 
must  walk  the  length  of  the  ball-room  alone,  while 
the  lucky  ones  who  are  already  settled  in  the  gallery 
l^ass  judgment  on  one's  frock,  coiffure  and  all  the 
rest.  Captain  Max  hadn't  warned  me,  and  when  I 
found  myself  under  that  battery  of  lorgnettes  and 
monocles  I  was  petrified.  I  knew  that  my  train  was 
a  fright,  and  every  pin  in  my  hair  about  to  fall;  but 
somehow  I  got  across  that  terrible  expanse  of  slip- 
pery floor,  and  to  our  table. 


144  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

"The  Countess's  sister  was  there — the  one  who 
called  on  Sunday  you  know — and  her  son  and  daugh- 
ter, such  a  pretty  girl,  Uncle  Peter!  Black  hair  and 
creamy  skin — of  course  the  whole  family  shows  the 
Hungarian  strain — and  a  delicious  frock  just  to  her 
ankles.  It  seems  all  the  young  girls  here  wear  short 
dresses  for  dancing,  and  so  they  don't  have  that 
draggled  look  we  get  with  our  trains.  Everyone  at 
the  table,  including  the  women,  rose  during  introduc- 
tions; and  of  course  all  the  men  kissed  one's  hand. 
Then  they  brought  dozens  of  other  men.  Captain 
JMax  says  there  are  always  three  times  as  man}^  as 
there  are  girls  at  these  dances — and  I  met  such  a  lot 
that  for  the  rest  of  the  evening  I  had  no  idea  whom 
I  knew  and  whom  I  didn't. 

"We  began  to  dance  directly,  and  oh,  my  dear,  the 
Vienna  waltz!  I've  seen  it  on  the  stage,  and  it  looked 
easy — just  standing  in  one  spot  and  whirling  round; 
but  when  one  actually  attempted  it — !  At  first  I  was 
so  dizzy,  I  could  only  hold  up  my  train  and  keep  my 
feet  going.  I  know  now  all  the  sensations  of  a  top 
when  it's  spun  at  full  speed,  and  never  allowed  to  die 
down.  But,  after  a  while,  I  regained  sufficient  con- 
sciousness to  catch  the  little  step  they  take  on  the 
second  step,  and  then  it  was  easier.  There's  a  sort 
of  swing  to  it,  too,  that's  rather  fascinating;  and 
Captain  Max  does  do  it  well." 

Patsy,  on  her  cushion,  gazed  into  the  fire — then  at 
the  roses  in  her  lap.  "Ahem!"  I  coughed,  as  an 
uncle  will  when  the  clock  points  to  four  of  the  dawn. 
"You  were  saying?" 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         145 

"Oh! — yes.  Well,  the  music  of  course  was  heav- 
enly ;  one  could  have  danced  to  it  all  night,  as  most  of 
them  do  here.  The  Frau  Grafin  said  hardly  anyone 
goes  home  before  six  in  the  morning,  and  some  at 
eight!  That  is  why  the  Viennese  laugh  at  their  own 
custom  of  paying  the  porter  twenty  hellers  for  open- 
ing the  door  after  half  past  ten;  they  all  come  home 
in  the  morning,  after  the  house  is  unlocked  again ! 

"But  I  couldn't  have  kept  it  up  any  longer.  Uncle 
Peter.  In  the  first  place  you  are  never  allowed  to 
sit  out  a  dance,  not  even  part  of  one.  The  minute 
you  drop  into  a  chair  out  of  sheer  weariness,  some  one 
comes  and  clicks  his  heels  together,  bows  profoundly, 
and  off  you  have  to  go  with  him.  Then  they  have  a 
habit  of  breaking  in,  that  is  convenient  at  times,  and 
annoying  at  others.  All  the  men  who  have  no  par- 
ners  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  when  you 
have  had  a  round  or  two  with  one  person,  another 
very  courteously  but  firmly  stops  you  and  claims  his 
turn.  In  this  way,  each  dance  is  divided  between  four 
or  five  men.  It's  all  very  well  when  you  don't  like 
your  partner  of  the  moment,  but — " 

Patsy  again  was  looking  at  her  yellow  roses. 
"There  are  disadvantages?"    I  suggested. 

"Yes.  Oh,  several  kinds  of  disadvantages.  Uncle 
Peter.  INIost  of  my  dances  were  silent  as  the  grave. 
I  would  say,  'you  speak  English?'  JVIy  partner  would 
reply,  'alas,  fraulein,  a  few  words  only.  But  you, 
surely  j^ou  speak  German?'  'Unfortunately,  not  at 
all.'  Then  dead  silence.  But  they  are  all  kindness  in 
trying  to  understand,  and  everyone  wants  to  learn  our 


146  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

way  of  waltzing — "^so  langsam/  they  say  wonder- 
ingly.  When  Captain  Max  and  I  tried  it,  so  that  I 
might  get  a  Httle  rest,  all  the  others  stopped  dancing 
and  watched  the  performance.  Then  every  man  I 
met  wanted  me  to  teach  him — they  are  just  like  chil- 
dren over  something  new. 

"Poor  Uncle  Peter,  you're  yawning.  Only  let  me 
tell  you  about  the  other  dances,  and  then  you  can  go 
to  bed.  There  were  two  quadrilles,  not  the  old-fash- 
ioned kind,  but  quite  like  cotillon  figures — really 
charming.  They  showed  the  prettty  costumes  of  the 
girls  and  the  uniforms  of  the  officers  to  much 
better  advantage  than  the  round  dances  do.  Then 
there  was  a  terrible  thing  called  the  Polka  Schnell — 
faster  even  than  the  regular  waltz,  and  that  makes 
one  giddy  to  watch.  But  the  Countess  and  all  the 
chaperones  threw  themselves  into  it  as  madly  as  the 
younger  ones,  and  weren't  in  the  least  out  of  breath 
at  the  end.  I  believe  Viennese  women  never  grow 
old.  They  seem  to  have  as  good  a  time  at  sixty  as  at 
sixteen,  and  to  be  as  popular. 

"After  the  second  quadrille,  we  had  'supper' — 
though  we'd  been  eating,  as  I  told  you,  all  evening, 
But  now  we  sat  down  formally  to  chicken  and  salad, 
cakes  of  all  sorts  and  cheese  and  beer.  It  was  a  funny 
supper,  wasn't  it,  Uncle  Peter?  I  suppose  they'd 
sniff  at  our  champagne  and  ices;  they  like  a  sub- 
stantial meal.  The  dance  immediately  after  supper  is 
Ladies'  Choice,  and  it's  amusing  to  watch  the  frantic 
efforts  of  each  man  to  engage  the  favour  of  his  par- 
ticular divinity.    They  lean  against  a  pillar  and  stare 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         147 

into  one's  eyes  with  the  most  despairing  gaze,  looking 
anxiously  meanwhile  to  see  if  one  holds  their  bouquet. 
I  forgot  to  tell  you  the  pretty  custom  they  have  of 
bringing  one  roses  and  violets  all  during  the  evening. 
The  men  have  great  baskets  of  flowers  in  their  dress- 
ing-room, and  hurry  to  and  fro  with  posies  for  the 
ladies  they  admire.  By  the  time  you  are  ready  to 
go  home,  you  have  quite  an  imposing  collection." 

"All  of  one  colour,  it  seems,"  I  observed  inno- 
cently, as  Patsy  herself  stifled  a  yawn,  and  rose  re- 
gretfully from  her  cushioned  nest. 

"Oh,"  said  Patsy  with  immoderate  indifl*erence, 
"they're  all  in  my  room — the  violets  and  everything. 
These" — looking  down  at  Captain  Max's  roses —  "I 
must  have  forgotten  these!"  she  decides  with  a  bril- 
liant smile.  "Goodnight,  Uncle  Peter — you're  rather 
a  dear." 

That  settled  it;  as  any  properly  trained  uncle 
would  have  known.  When  a  healthy  young  woman 
begins  to  call  her  moth-eaten  male  relatives  by  en- 
dearing names,  it  is  time  to  lock  the  stable  door — or 
at  least  to  realize  one's  temerity  in  having  opened  it 
in  the  first  place.  But,  as  Patsy's  mother,  from  her 
severe  infancy,  has  told  me,  I  am  most  improperly 
trained;  so  I  hastened  to  accept  an  invitation  from 
Countess  H ,  bidding  my  niece  and  me  to  a  skat- 
ing party  at  her  son's  rink  next  evening. 

Every  true  Viennese  has  his  private  rink  mem- 
bership, as  he  has  his  other  clubs,  and  is  an  expert 
skater.  All  afternoon  and  evening  the  various  skat- 
ing resorts  are  crowded  with  devotees  of  the  graceful 


148  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

sport;  which  is  held,  by  the  way,  out  of  doors — the 
large  rinks  being  simply  walled  in  from  the  street. 
Captain  Max's  is  of  quite  imposing  proportions,  a 
very  different  affair  from  the  cramped,  stuffy  "ice- 
l^alace"  of  Paris  or  London.  There  is  a  building,  to 
be  sure,  but  this  is  merely  for  the  garde-rohe  and  the 
inevitable  refreshment  rooms.  The  skating  takes 
place  on  the  vast  field  of  ice  outside. 

At  night  this  is  brilliantly  illuminated  with  parti- 
coloured Hghts,  and  the  scene  during  Carnival — when 
the  skaters  are  frequently  in  fancy-dress — is  fascinat- 
ing beyond  description.  As  I  first  saw  it,  gipsies 
were  gliding  over  the  ice  with  pierrots,  geisha  girls 
with  pierrettes;  Arabs  in  the  ghostly  burnous  swept 
past  with  Indians,  painted  and  feathered,  and  a  whole 
regiment  of  Rough  Riders  swooped  down  upon  them, 
with  blood-thirsty  yells.  A  wonderful  polar  bear 
(under  his  skin  a  lieutenant  of  cavalry)  lumbered 
about  with  his  friend  an  elephant;  and  devils,  ballet- 
girls  (by  day  perfect  gentlemen),  toreros  and  joc- 
keys, frisked  from  one  end  of  the  rink  to  the  other — 
while  one  of  the  two  seductive  Viennese  bands  was 
always  plajdng. 

Patsy  at  last  saw  dancing  on  the  ice,  and  lost  her 
heart  once  for  all  to  this  marvellous  accomplishment. 
When  Captain  IMax,  in  his  subduing  red-and-black 
Mephistopheles  costume,  begged  her  to  try  it,  she 
clapped  her  hands  like  a  child  and  flew  with  him  to  a 
quieter  corner  of  the  rink  where  he  might  teach  her 
the  difficult  gyrations.  Before  the  evening  was  over 
she  was  waltzing  delightedly  in  the  centre,  with  the 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         149 

best  of  them.  I  struggle  not  to  dote,  but  I  must  set 
down  here  that  I  have  seen  few  sights  as  alluring  as 
that  young  witch,  in  her  bright  Cossack's  jacket  and 
trim  skirt,  gliding  and  whirling  in  the  slippery  dance ; 
with  the  maze  of  other  brilliant  costumes  round  her, 
the  fairy  lights  overhead,  and  in  the  air  the  lilt  and 
thrill  of  a  Vienna  waltz. 

When  we  went  into  the  pavilion  later  for  some- 
thing hot,  I  noticed  with  amazement  how  many  of  the 
pierrots  had  grey  hair  under  their  caps,  and  how 
many  of  the  geisha  girls  and  pierrettes  were  ad- 
dressed as  "mother."  "But  certainly  I"  said  our 
charming  Frau  Grafin  with  spirit.  "Because  they 
have  children,  are  they  dead?  Because  they  have  gone 
through  much  trial  in  life,  are  they  to  mope  in  a 
corner  and  know  none  of  life's  joy?  Pardon  me,  hon- 
ored meinherVj  if  I  suggest  that  they  are  not  as  old  as 
some  of  your  American  young  people  of  twenty!" 

I  saw  that  we  had  fallen  on  a  tender  subject  with 
the  delightful  lady ;  who,  herself  the  mother  of  a  boy 
of  twenty-eight,  is  (as  Patsy  remarked)  quite  as 
lively  as  any  girl  of  sixteen.  And  who,  if  I  remem- 
ber rightly,  was  rather  harshly  criticised  thereupon 
at  the  time  of  her  residence  in  Washington.  She  had 
certainly  a  just  revenge  in  her  own  criticism  of  the 
blase,  weary  American  youth  of  today;  and  the  con- 
trast between  him  and  the  Viennese  of  middle  age  or 
even  advanced  years  as  other  nations  number  them. 
Fresh,  vif,  alert  with  interest  for  everything,  and  time 
for  everything  as  well,  the  Austrians  may  be  children 


150  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

to  the  end  of  their  days;  but  they  are  wise  children, 
who  stay  young  by  design,  not  by  incapacity. 

As  we  have  said  before,  they  are  so  entirely  un- 
self-conscious  that  they  never  fear  making  fools  of 
themselves ;  and,  in  consequence,  do  not  do  so.  Young 
and  mature,  they  throw  themselves  into  everything, 
with  a  whole-hearted  abandon  that  in  itself  stimu- 
lates a  like  enthusiasm  in  all  about  them.  They  are 
each  other's  currents  of  energy  that  is  never  ex- 
hausted, but  always  procreative.  And  nothing  is  too 
much  trouble.  They  will  take  infinite  pains,  and  go 
to  any  amount  of  expense,  to  help  towards  the  suc- 
cess of  the  smallest  festivity,  while  their  thought  and 
generosity  for  others  in  either  joy  or  trouble  is  a 
revelation  to  the  more  stolid  Anglo-Saxon. 

Among  our   Viennese   friends  was   a  charming 

bachelor,  Herr  von  G .    He  started  to  Paris  one 

week-end,  and  had  got  as  far  as  Munich  when  he 
heard  from  someone  that  Patsy  had  tonsilitis.  He 
took  the  next  train  back  to  Vienna,  and  presented 
himself  at  our  hotel  the  same  evening.  It  distressed 
me  very  much  when  I  heard  why  he  had  come,  as  the 

child  was  really  not  seriously  ill ;  but  Herr  von  G 

said  earnestly,  "I  do  not  return  to  bore  you;  I  am 
merely  on  hand  if  you  need  me."  And  for  a  wonder 
he  was  not  in  love  with  Patsy.  The  act  w^as  one  of 
simple  friendship  for  us  both. 

When  Patsy  had  recovered,  Herr  von  G ,  in- 
stead of  going  on  with  his  postponed  journey,  took 
us  up  to  Semmering  for  two  or  three  days  of  winter 
sports.    Here,  within  an  hour's  ride  of  their  own  city. 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         151 

the  Viennese  revel  in  the  delights  of  lugeing,  ski-ing, 
and  sleighing — as  well  as  skating,  of  course;  giving 
themselves  to  the  healthful  exercise  with  characteristic 
zest  and  skill.  The  tiniest  children  manage  their  skis 
with  lightning  dexterity,  and  it  is  beautiful  to  watch 
their  small  swaying  bodies  skim  across  the  snow  like 
white  birds  on  wing.  This  kind  of  flying  combines 
the  aesthetic  with  the  practical,  and  leaves  to  its  nat- 
ural majesty  the  clearest  of  crisp  blue  skies  overhead. 

Tobogganing  is  scarcely  less  favoured  by  the 
Austrians,  who  sweep  down  their  dizzy  hills  with  a 
vim  that  knows  no  fear.  Horses  are  waiting  at  the 
foot,  to  drag  the  toboggans  up  again;  and  all  day 
long  the  laughing  groups  of  men  and  women,  young 
girls,  officers  and  children,  dart  down  the  snowy 
steeps — ten  and  twenty  strong  on  each  sled — and  are 
hauled  back  to  begin  anew.  Observing  the  crowds  of 
Viennese  who  daily  go  to  and  from  Semmering,  and 
knowing  as  one  does  many  of  them  who  would  think 
a  week  without  this  excursion  shorn  of  its  greatest 
pleasure,  one  does  not  wonder  at  the  happy  healthy 
faces  and  splendid  colour  of  this  sport-loving  people. 

In  the  Spring  and  Fall  they  play  tennis  and  ride 
in  the  Prater — a  large  park  on  the  outskirts  of 
Vienna;  while  in  the  summer  everyone  who  can  goes 
walking  in  the  Tyrol  or  the  German  mountains. 
Women  as  well  as  men  are  expert  walkers  and  moun- 
tain-climbers, and  their  horsemanship  is  the  pride  of 
the  nation.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  Viennese 
have  never  paid  much  attention  to  golf,  and  the  rea- 
son: it  is  too  tame  for  them.     AU  their  sports  are 


152  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

swift,  dashing,  and  full  of  a  light  individual  grace. 
They  are  devoted  to  fencing — to  anything  that  calls 
into  play  the  quick  and  skilful  move  of  the  individual 
body;  the  heavy  and  brutal  are  unknown  to  them. 
Like  children  they  boldly  attack  the  feat  that  lures 
the  eye;  and,  like  children  always,  achieve  therein  a 
succes  fou. 

What  is  a  rheumatic  uncle  among  such  people? 
All  he  can  do  is  to  open  doors — which  by  no  amount 
of  gymnastics  is  he  able  to  shut  when  he  should. 


Ill 

THE  FAIRY  PLAY 

Between  officers'  cotillons  and  opera,  thes  dansants 
and  military  concerts  at  the  Stadt  Park,  Patsy  sand- 
wiched conscientious  layers  of  sight-seeing.  I  am  not 
of  those  who  follow  Baedeker  (even  in  a  shame-faced 
brown  linen  cover),  but  I  dutifully  accompanied  her 
to  the  gallery  and  the  royal  stables,  and  to  worship 
before  Maria  Theresa's  emeralds  in  the  Treasury. 
At  the  Rathaus  I  balked — nothing  except  rice  pud- 
ding is  as  depressing  to  me  as  a  town-hall;  when  it 
came  to  the  Natural  History  Museum  I  was  tepid 
also.  And  from  that  time  forth  Patsy — with  the 
irrepressible  superiority  that  belongs  to  born  sight- 
seers and  to  people  who  take  cold  baths — announced 
that  she  would  take  the  maid. 

I  thought  this  a  philanthropic  idea,  and  for  several 
reasons  worthy  of  encouragement.  So  Patsy  and  the 
red-cheeked  mddl  embarked  on  a  heavy  sea  of 
churches,  the  mddl  munching  apples  under  rose-win- 
dows, while  Patsy  inspected  the  pulpit.  A  week  had 
been  spent  in  this  innocent  diversion,  when  the  dire 
news  came  to  us  that  the  mddl  had  been  taken  to  a 
hospital  with  peritonitis.  The  sour-faced  spinster 
who  succeeded  her  Patsy  would  have  none  of.     "I 

153 


154  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

shall  go  alone  to  see  the  engravings,"  she  announced 
firmly. 

I  resigned  myself  to  accompany  her ;  but  when  we 
reached  the  Albertina  Burg  I  was  persuaded  to  take 
"a  tiny  stroll"  into  the  Graben,  and  return  for 
Patsy  in  half  an  hour.  There  seemed  nothing  out  of 
bounds  in  this,  as  the  library  where  Archduke  Albert 
housed  his  engravings,  like  most  libraries,  is  sternly 
shunned  by  all  but  the  semi-defunct  and  care-takers. 
It  shares  the  usual  old  court  with  the  usual  old  palaces 
of  mediaeval  Austrian  nobility;  and  I  waited  at  the 
gate  till  Patsy  had  entered  the  open  square,  hesitated 
a  moment  before  the  several  doors  confronting  her, 
and  finally  followed  sedately  in  the  wake  of  some 
Americans — past  a  pompous  gold-lace  porter — into 
the  first  door  on  the  right.  The  rest  of  the  story  is 
hers. 

She  walked  leisurely  up  some  shallow  stairs,  with- 
out noticing  at  first  that  the  Americans  had  stayed 
behind  to  converse  with  the  porter;  and  that  finally 
they  went  out  instead  of  following  her  above.  She 
did  think  the  porter  was  rather  elaborate  for  a  library, 
said  Patsy,  but  in  Austria  he  didn't  seem  extraordi- 
nary. The  staircase  was,  however;  and  she  wondered 
why  Baedeker  had  passed  it  by.  Beautifully  carved 
in  white  marble,  it  was  carpeted  with  old  Turkish 
rugs  and  hung  with  splendid  portraits  of  the  Haps- 
burgs,  and — at  the  landings — with  charming  old 
French  clocks. 

Patsy  admired  all  these  treasures  at  length, 
serenely  ignoring  another  and  still  more  imposing 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE  155 

guard  who  scrutinized  her  sharply  as  he  passed.  She 
has  a  way  with  guards,  has  Patsy ;  they  are  generally 
reduced  to  becoming  humility,  no  matter  how  ar- 
rogantly they  start  in.  This  one  stalked  on  down- 
stairs, leaving  her  to  proceed  on  her  way  upward. 
She  was  still  searching  Baedeker  for  the  key  to  the 
interesting  portraits,  and  also  to  the  whereabouts  of 
the  famous  engravings — as  yet  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

According  to  the  guide-book,  these  should  be  "in 
two  long  rows  above  the  book-cases";  and  "one  should 
sit  down  at  the  small  tables  provided  for  inspecting 
them,  as  the  crowd  of  tourists  makes  it  difficult  to 
see  the  drawings  satisfactorily."  This  was  puzzling. 
Patsy,  now  in  solitary  possession  of  the  large  room  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  saw  neither  engravings  nor 
tables  nor  tourists.  She  was  quite  alone  in  the  centre 
of  the  beautiful  empty  apartment. 

She  looked  at  the  Louis  Quinze  furniture,  at  the 
gorgeous  onyx  table  set  with  miniatures;  at  the  im- 
pressive portrait  of  ^laria  Theresa  over  the  mantel- 
piece, and  several  autographed  pictures  of  kings. 
Baedeker  said  nothing  of  all  this.  It  occurred  to 
Patsy  then  that  it  must  have  been  the  reception-room 
of  the  late  Archduke,  and  that  the  engravings  were 
probably  on  the  floor  above.  But,  before  going  on, 
she  paused  in  one  of  the  gold  and  grey  chairs  for  a 
moment,  further  to  admire  the  exquisite  room. 

While  she  sat  there,  she  was  startled  by  the  sud- 
den appearance  of  two  footmen,  in  the  same  grey 
and  gold  livery  of  the  porter  downstairs.  They 
showed  no  signs  of  surprise  at  her  presence,  however, 


156  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

but  mumbled  obsequious  greetings  and  backed  into 
the  room  beyond.  Hardly  had  they  disappeared  when 
another  installment  of  flunkies  came  in,  carrying 
great  trays  of  food ;  thej^  too,  at  sight  of  Patsy,  bent 
as  low  as  they  could  under  the  circumstances — but  she 
now  was  thrown  into  a  tumult  of  trepidation.  When 
the  door  into  the  other  room  was  opened  again,  she 
had  a  glimpse  of  a  great  round  table  laid  with  gold 
plate  and  crystal  and  sevres;  grand  high-backed  chairs 
surrounded  it,  and  more  Hapsburg  portraits  lined  the 
walls. 

Patsy  gasped  with  terror  and  astonishment.  At 
last  it  dawned  on  her  that  she  was  in  the  wrong  place ! 

She  caught  up  her  furs  and  the  miserable  guide- 
book, and  started  towards  the  door.  Only  to  suffer 
still  worse  fright,  when  she  was  confronted  there  by 
a  tall  man  in  uniform ;  who  in  most  courteous  French 
insisted  on  her  staying  to  lunch.  He  was  young  and 
had  black  hair  and  blue  eyes  ( I  will  not  vouch  for  the 
authenticity  of  these  details,  as  Patsy  just  then  saw 
all  uniforms  possessed  of  black  hair  and  blue  eyes) ; 
and  it  was  hard  to  be  stiff  with  him.  But  she  man- 
aged to  explain  with  some  dignity  that  she  had  come 
to  the  Albertina  to  see  the  engravings,  but  had  evi- 
dently entered  the  wrong  door;  that  she  deeply 
regretted  the  intrusion,  which  she  begged  this  gentle- 
man to  excuse,  and  that  she  must  forthwith  find  her 
uncle  who  was  waiting  in  the  court  below. 

I  wasn't,  but  that  is  beside  the  story.  The  blue 
eyes  of  the  young  man  being  as  keen  as  most  Aus- 
trians'  at  a  second  glance,  he  realized  his  own  mis- 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         157 

take,  and  apologized  in  turn;  hastening  to  add  that 
mademoiselle  could  not  intrude  in  this  house,  as  it 
was  honoured  by  her  presence,  and  that  she  and  her 
esteemed  uncle  would  be  welcome  whenever  they 
might  be  gracious  enough  to  visit  it.  He  begged  leave 
to  accompany  her  downstairs  and,  as  Patsy  could 
hardly  refuse,  she  went  with  him — "knees  wobbling, 
and  my  heart  still  in  my  mouth,  Uncle  Peter !  When 
the  glum  old  porter  saw  us,  he  all  but  went  into 
catalepsy;  and  bowed  to  the  ground,  while  the  nice 
uniformed  man  was  talking  fast  to  him  in  German. 

"Then  he — the  nice  man — kissed  my  hand,  and 
held  the  door  for  me  himself,  and  said  all  the  polite 
things  over  again.  I  was  feeling  relieved  by  this  time, 
so  I  thought  I  might  smile  when  I  said  Au  revoir, 
and  begged  pardon  once  more  for  my  stupidity.  I 
stole  a  last  look  too  at  that  lovely  staircase  and  the 
fierce  old  portraits ;  and  now,  Uncle  Peter,  I  want  to 
get  Captain  Max  and  find  out  directly  whose  they 
are!" 

Captain  Max  was  inclined  to  be  what  Patsy  calls 
"starchy"  over  the  affair.  "Gray  uniform — blue  eyes 
— black  hair?"  he  repeated  tersely.  "And  the  door 
was  the  first  on  the  right,  in  the  Albertina  Palace?" 

Patsy  nodded.    Suspense  overpowered  her  speech. 

"Then  it  was  Salvator,  brother  of  Archduke 
Ferdinand,  the  heir  to  the  throne.  He  was  probably 
having  one  of  his  famous  little  luncheons  in  the 
Archduke's  palace."  And  Captain  INIax  scowled 
darkly,  first  at  Patsy,  then  at  me.    He  thinks,  poor 


168  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

enamoured  young  man,  I  should  have  a  guardian,  my- 
self. 

"Then  I  was  in  the  Archduke  Ferdinand's  pal- 
ace?" cried  Patsy.  "But  why  was  I  allowed?  Where 
were  all  the  guards  and  things  ?  I  might  have  had  a 
bomb  in  my  muff!" 

"We  don't  have  suffragettes  in  Austria,"  said 
Captain  Max  loftily.  "And  the  Heir  is  what  you  say 
'strong'  for  democracy.  He  has  fewer  servants  than 
anybody.  Those  that  he  has  were  probably  getting 
Salvator's  luncheon  ready!" 

A  look  I  well  know  came  into  Patsy's  limpid  eyes. 
"It  looked  like  a  very  nice  luncheon,"  said  she;  "I 
wish  now  that  I'd  stayed." 

The  hauptmann  coloured  furiously.  Then  all  at 
once  he  laughed.  "You  will  have  a  chance  to  tell  him 
so,"  he  said  blandly,  "when  you  make  your  curtsey 
to  him  at  the  ball  next  week!" 

Really,  he  is  not  so  bad,  this  young  man  for  whom 
I  opened  the  door. 

The  ball  was  the  famous  Metternich  Redoute, 
given  every  year,  during  Carnival,  by  the  old  Countess 
who  was  Austrian  ambassadress  at  the  court  of  the 
third  Napoleon.  Each  year  she  names  her  masque  by 
a  different  fantasy  and,  once  it  is  announced,  excite- 
ment runs  high  over  costumes,  head-dress,  etc.  This 
winter  it  was  Meeresgrund,  "The  Bottom-Of-The- 
Sea  Ball,"  and  the  shops  along  the  Graben  and  Kart- 
nerstrasse  displayed  seductive  ropes  of  coral,  glitter- 
ing fish-skins,  pearls  and  golden  seaweed — all  the 
heart  of  mermaid  could  desire.     The  one  topic  of 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         159 

conversation  at  parties,  between  acts  at  the  oj^era,  and 
in  the  boudoir  at  home,  closeted  with  anxious  maids, 
was :  what  shall  her  costume  be  for  the  Meeresgrund? 

It  must  be  something  original,  something  chic 
(that  word  that  is  almost  more  Viennese  than 
French),  something  beautiful  and  costly — for  does 
not  Royalty  open  the  ball?  Patsy's  Titian  head  all 
but  turned  grey  during  the  racking  period  of  indeci- 
sion. When  finally  with  impressive  secrecy  she  and 
the  recovered  mddl  had  spirited  her  disguise  behind 
locked  doors,  there  was  still  a  tantalizing  week  before 
the  great  event.  I  did  what  I  could  to  assuage  im- 
patience, in  the  way  of  opera  tickets,  concerts  and  a 
performance  of  Duse. 

Over  the  actress  Patsy  went  as  mad  as  any  Vien- 
nese ;  and  even  I  cried  a  mild  hravo  or  two.  Curious, 
how  the  sight  of  a  charming  woman  playing  a  cap- 
tivating part,  like  La  Locandiera^  has  the  effect  of 
opening  one's  mouth,  and  making  one  emit  strange 
sounds !  The  same  thing  happened  to  me  at  the  Sun- 
day-morning concert  of  the  Manner gesangverein — it 
looks  Hke  a  Sanskrit  idiom,  but  it  is  a  simple  society 
of  simple  Viennese  business-men,  clubbed  together  to 
sing  a  delightful  two  hours  on  an  occasional  Sabbath 
morning.  They  make  no  pretense  at  high  art,  but  are 
fated  (by  birth  and  every  instinct)  to  achieve  it;  and 
when  they  stand  up,  two  hundred  strong,  and  roll  out 
the  majestic  phrases  of  Beethoven's  "Hymn  of 
Praise,"  it  is  time  for  even  a  moth-eaten  mere  relative 
to  make  a  fool  of  himself. 

I  behaved  better  at  opera.     If  there  is  any  be- 


160  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

haviour  in  one,  opera  will  bring  it  out.  In  Vienna, 
I  mean,  of  course;  not  in  New  York  or  Paris  or 
Covent  Garden,  where  manners  and  clothes  to  be  au 
fait  must  be  au  minimum — and  where  the  real  per- 
formance is  mannequin  parade,  by  the  great  jewel- 
lers and  dressmakers.  In  Vienna,  opera-goers  have 
the  unique  custom  of  going  to  hear  opera.  They 
arrive  on  time ;  or  if  they  do  not  they  wait  outside  in 
the  corridor  till  the  end  of  the  first  act.  The  conclu- 
sion is  drawn  by  the  audience  in  general,  that  it  is 
present  to  hear  and  see  what  is  going  on  up  on  the 
stage ;  any  interruption  to  this,  whether  of  whispering 
or  rattled  programmes,  is  rudely  hissed.  While  one 
who  attempts  to  leave  or  to  approach  his  seat  after  the 
first  note  of  the  overture  has  been  sounded  finds  him- 
self detained  with  greater  force  than  fondness.  The 
rare  premise  is  entertained  that  opera  is  designed  to 
furnish  music,  and  that  the  music  is  worth  hearing. 
It  does  not  seem  to  occur  to  anyone  to  dispute  this  by 
leaving  before  the  final  note  is  struck,  and  the  final 
curtain  falls.  To  the  New  Yorker  especially,  thirst- 
ing for  his  champagne  and  lobster,  this  must  be  a 
diverting  system. 

But  the  New  Yorker  has  probably  disdained 
Vienna  opera  altogether  as  too  cheap  to  be  worth  any- 
thing. The  best  seats  in  the  house  are  only  three  dol- 
lars, while  excellent  places  may  be  had  for  half  that 
price,  and  the  students  and  enthusiasts  up  in  the  gal- 
lery pay  a  sixth  of  it.  Officers  come  off  better  still : 
in  the  circular  pit  reserved  for  them,  though  they  have 
to  stand,  these  servants  of  the  Emperor  pay  the  Im- 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         161 

perial  Opera  only  eighty  hellers  (eight-pence).  Of 
course  there  is  a  goodly  show  of  uniforms  all  over  the 
house  as  well;  and,  with  the  pretty  toilettes  of  the 
women,  the  audience  is  a  gay  and  attractive  one. 
Though  the  horseshoe  is  only  about  half  the  size  of 
the  New  York  JNIetropolitan  Opera,  there  is  a  com- 
fortable intimacy  in  its  rich  gold  and  scarlet  loges; 
besides  (the  one  elegance  the  Metropolitan  lacks)  the 
quartered  trappings  of  the  royal  box. 

This  last  is  often  occupied  by  one  or  another  of  the 
Archdukes  and  their  wives,  and  several  times  a  year 
the  Emperor  himself  is  present.  Then  it  is  gala  per- 
formance, and  all  ladies  who  attend  must  be  in  light 
evening  frocks;  gentlemen,  of  course,  in  the  regula- 
tion claw-hammer.  It  is  somewhat  disconcerting  to 
see — as  I  did  for  the  first  time — this  fashionable  as- 
sembly extract  from  its  coat  pockets  a  generous  ham 
sandwich,  and  begin  to  eat  it  before  the  curtain  goes 
up ;  also  to  watch  the  rows  of  elegant  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen waiting  their  turn  in  line  at  the  refreshment 
bar  between  acts,  and  to  behold  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  they  devour  large  cheese  cakes  and  beer.  The 
fact  is  that  opera  in  Vienna  begins  so  early — seven 
o'clock,  as  a  rule — few  people  have  a  chance  to  dine 
before  they  leave  home ;  and  they  are  far  too  sensible 
to  sit  hungry  through  a  long  performance,  or  to 
satisfy  tiieir  appetite  surreptitiously,  as  Anglo- 
Saxons  would.  They  want  food,  and  they  go  and  get 
it — in  as  frank  quantity  as  they  desire.  I  have  seen 
our  charming  Frau  Grafin  dispose  of  as  many  as  nine 
ham  sandwiches  in  the  course  of  an  evening,  calmly 


162  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

whisking  the  crumbs  from  her  white  satin  gown  mean- 
while. 

It  is  superfluous  to  speak  of  the  all-satisfying  de- 
light of  the  music  itself  at  the  Imperial  Opera.  No 
one  who  has  seen  Weingartner  conduct  needs  to  have 
it  described.  For  no  one  who  has  not  seen  him  can  it 
be  described.  Sufficient  to  say  that  the  merits  of  the 
piece  are  not  left  in  the  hands  of  a  quartet  of  fabu- 
lously paid  principals,  or  to  the  luxurious  detail  of 
extravagant  mounting;  but  that  every  voice  in  the 
chorus,  every  inconspicuous  instrument  of  the  or- 
chestra, is  planned  and  trained  and  worked  into  an 
ensemble  as  perfect  as  a  master  ear  can  make  it.  And 
the  hravos  that  resound  at  the  end  of  each  act  are  the 
sure  token  of  the  master's  success;  for  nowhere  is 
there  a  more  critical  or  a  more  appreciative  opera  au- 
dience than  in  Vienna. 

This  is  true  of  the  Volksopera  as  well  as  of  the 
Imperial.  Though  at  the  "People's  Opera"  the 
lighter  pieces  are  given  for  half  the  price  charged  at 
the  more  pretentious  house,  the  lower  middle  class  who 
attend  them  are  no  less  musically  trained  and  difficult 
to  satisfy. 

But  while  every  class  demands  and  is  given  high 
excellence  in  classical  music,  it  is  in  the  operette  that 
they  unconsciously  recognize  and  worship  the  true 
soul  of  Vienna.  As  far  removed  from  English  mu- 
sical comedy  as  caviar  from  candy,  this  sparkling, 
rippling,  dashing  whirl  of  airs  and  waltzes  seems  to 
catch  up  the  familiar  types  out  of  the  streets  and 
cafes,  ballrooms  and  boudoirs,  and  present  them  here 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         163 

on  the  stage  en  masse.  In  place  of  the  musical  com- 
edy milkmaid,  with  her  Louis  heels  and  pink  satin 
decollete,  we  have  the  well-known  students  and  gri- 
settes,  grandes  dairies  and  varnished  old  noceurs  seen 
in  the  Graben  every  day.  They  wear  real  clothes,  and 
say  real  things,  and  make  real  mistakes — all  to  the 
most  entrancing  music  Franz  Lehar  or  Leo  Fall  can 
contrive ;  and  the  result  is  a  madness  of  delight  on  the 
part  of  the  audience,  such  as  comes  only  when  people 
are  shown  themselves. 

Shocking?  Yes,  frequently.  The  Viennese  and 
their  operettes  that  reflect  them  are  apt  to  shock  many 
a  conventional-minded  foreigner.  They  even  shock 
themselves  sometimes — but  excuse  the  episode  a  min- 
ute later.  For  they  are  quick  to  forgive,  and  are  not 
over-particular  as  to  morals,  if  the  person  eschewing 
them  be  gay,  attractive  and  clever.  Hence  the  heroes 
and  heroines  of  their  operettes  are  audacious  to  a  de- 
gree somewhat  startling  to  the  uninitiated  in  Viennese 
life. 

But  they  make  up  for  it  in  verve  and  brilliancy. 
See  them  dash  through  three  acts  of  wit  and  light- 
ning movement — with  all  their  liveliness  they  never 
romp ;  hear  them  sing  their  complicated,  racing  songs, 
without  a  fault;  watch  them  whirl  and  glide  in  the 
heady  waltz — laughing,  dancing,  singing  all  at  once, 
and  perfectly.  Shocking?  you  cry,  pounding  your 
cane  to  bits  in  time  with  the  tune.    Piffle ! 

It  does  not  do  to  say  this  to  Patsy.  But  Patsy, 
happily,  understands  very  little  German;  so  that  I 
was  able  to  indulge  my  vice  for  operettes  with  her 


164.  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

uncurbed.  Patsy's  thoughts  were  all  on  the  Meeres- 
grund.  As  we  intended  to  leave  Vienna  the  day  after 
that,  it  may  without  fantasy  be  supposed  that  some  of 
her  less  well-behaved  thoughts  left  the  bottom  of  the 
sea  for  a  certain  skating  rink,  where  she  had  learned 
the  guiding  value  of  blue  eyes  and  black  hair.  But 
outwardly  everything  was  concentrated  on  the  Re- 
doute. 

I  am  not  a  spiteful  person,  but  I  was  inclined  to 
gloat  when  the  momentous  night  arrived,  and  Patsy, 
in  her  shimmering  costume,  confronted  our  good 
Countess.  American  youth  settled  its  score,  I  think. 
For  the  good  lady — ^herself  marvellous  in  lobster  pink 
and  a  white  wig — flew  to  Patsy,  kissed  her  on  both 
cheeks,  and  cried:  ''Aher!  It  is  of  an  enchantment, 
a  loveliness  of  fairies,  wunderhar!" 

And,  if  I  do  say  it  who  had  no  part  in  the  cre- 
ation, she  was  right.  Patsy  stood  before  us  as  a 
fisher  girl,  her  filmy  golden  nets  caught  over  her  shoul- 
ders and  round  the  waist  with  glistening  crabs  and 
little  brilliant  lizards.  In  contrast  with  the  other 
women  present  and  their  elaborate  headgear,  the 
witch  had  let  down  her  rippling  auburn  curls  to  fall 
in  simple  glory  to  her  waist.  Her  cheeks  were  softly 
flushed,  and  her  big  yellow-brown  eyes  were  shining 
as  she  asked  demurely,  "Do  you  like  me,  Uncle 
Peter?" 

I  was  not  too  dazzled  to  forget  it  was  not  I 
actually  being  asked.  But  as  Captain  Max  main- 
tained absolute  silence — that  most  ominous  of  an- 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         165 

swers ! — I  replied  with  nice  restraint  that  I  found  her 
charming.     And  we  entered  the  ball. 

It  was  a  vast  hall  surrounded  by  shallow  galleries, 
and  at  the  far  end  a  platform  arranged  in  the  style 
of  a  royal  drawing-room.  In  the  ballroom  it- 
self great  ropes  of  seaweed  and  ruddy  coral  hung 
pendant  down  the  blue-green  walls;  mammoth  shells 
of  palest  pink  held  the  mermaids'  chaperones ;  a  fairy 
ship  twinkled  one  entire  side  of  the  hall  with  favors 
and  fancies  awaiting  the  dance  of  the  sirens;  while 
at  every  nook  and  corner  lustrous  crinkled  pearls 
gleamed  forth  light. 

The  glassy  floor  pool  in  the  midst  of  all  this  fan- 
tasy was  crowded  with  Neptunes  and  nereids,  water 
sprites,  lovely  white  chifl*on  gulls,  and  Loreleis  with 
their  combs  of  gold.  But  they  were  very  modern 
Loreleis,  who  kept  their  hair  up  in  correct  ondula- 
tion,  and  whose  fascinations  proved  less  irresistible 
than  those  of  one  little  red-locked  fisher  girl.  Like 
everybody  else,  she  was  masked,  and  flitted  about  the 
giant  circle  of  the  promenade  with  a  tall  Captain 
of  the  Guards  in  brilliant  full-dress  uniform.  The 
^letternich  Redoute  is  the  one  event  of  Carnival  at 
which  only  the  women  appear  in  fancy  dress.  The 
officers  and  civilians,  in  sober  garb,  form  a  phalanx 
in  the  center  of  the  room,  whence  they  watch  the  gor- 
geous procession  of  promeneuses.  For  until  the 
Court  arrives  everyone  walks  about  and  admires 
everyone  else,  while  one  of  the  two  royal  bands  plays 
constantly.  Laughing  masked  ladies,  unknown  to 
one  another,  exchange  gay  greetings;  compliments 


166  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

are  bestowed  and  received  in  German,  French,  Eng- 
lish, Spanish,  Itahan  and  Hungarian;  while  the  fa- 
miliar "du"  is  the  rule  of  the  evening. 

All  at  once  something  electric  passes  over  the  chat- 
tering assembly.  From  a  splendid  shifting  mass  it 
divides  into  two  solid  lines,  leaving  a  broad  open 
space  down  the  centre.  The  sprightly  old  hostess  is 
in  her  place,  the  bands  burst  into  the  stirring  chords 
of  the  national  hymn — and  the  Court  enters! 

First  the  old  Emperor  with  his  two  gentlemen  of 
the  Household:  erect,  fiercely  handsome  in  his  blue- 
gray  uniform  of  the  Hapsburgs  glittering  with  or- 
ders. The  young  lieutenants  who  have  spent  the 
afternoon  ridiculing  his  war  policy,  at  sight  of  the 
well-known,  grizzled  head,  forget  their  grievances  and 
salute  with  a  fervour.  The  old  man,  haughtily  uncon- 
scious, passes  on.  Next  comes  the  young  Heir  Ap- 
parent, with  Archduchess  Maria  Annunziata — the 
Emperor's  niece  and  the  first  lady  of  the  land — who 
wears  Maria  Theresa's  emeralds  and  a  magnificent 
tiara  overshadowing  those  of  the  ladies  who  follow 
her.  But  each  of  them,  too,  is  ablaze  with  jewels, 
while  for  sheer  beauty  and  distinction  a  more  remark- 
able retinue  of  women  could  not  be  found. 

There  is  the  ruddy  fairness  of  the  German,  the 
wild  grace  of  the  Slav,  the  rich  olive  and  great  dark 
eyes  of  the  Hungarian,  the  chestnut  hair  and  black 
brows  of  Lombardy :  every  type  as  it  passes  is  sworn 
the  loveliest — and  then  forsworn  when  the  next  comes 
by.  The  court  ladies  have  confined  their  fantasy  to 
the  coiffure,  and  some  of  these  headdresses  are  mar- 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         167 

vels  of  ingenuity  and  elegance.  Wigs  are  much  fav- 
oured; white  and  high,  and  crowned  with  ships  of 
jewels,  or  monster  pearls,  or  nets  of  diamonds  inter- 
woven with  every  sort  of  precious  stone.  The  arch- 
dukes and  high  officers,  in  their  mere  uniforms,  for 
once  are  insignificant  in  the  trail  of  this  effulgence  of 
their  women;  and  Patsy  did  not  even  see  her  Prince 
Salvator  till  all  of  them  were  seated  on  the  platform 
and  the  ball  w^as  formally  begun. 

Twelve  young  girls  and  men  of  the  nobility  open 
the  dance  with  a  quadrille,  prescribed  according  to 
court  etiquette,  and  marked  by  a  quaint  stateliness. 
The  girls  are  dressed  alike  in  simple  frocks  of  white 
and  silver,  while  the  young  men  are  in  more  or  less 
elaborate  uniform.  After  the  quadrille,  dancing  is 
general,  but  the  crowd  is  too  great  for  it  to  be  any 
pleasure  at  first.  Not  till  after  the  Court  has  gone 
is  there  really  room  to  move  about  in.  Meanwhile, 
favoured  personages  are  led  to  the  Master  of  Cere- 
monies, and  by  him  presented  to  Royalty  on  its  dais. 

Thanks  to  Countess  H ,  Patsy  and  I  were 

permitted  to  pay  homage;  and  even  the  severe  old 
Emperor  himself  unbent  to  smile  at  the  witch  in  her 
shimmering  frock  when  she  made  her  reverence. 
There  was  a  look  about  Patsy  that  night  that  a  stone 
image  must  have  melted  to — a  radiance  at  once  so 
soft  and  so  bright,  no  man  could  have  resisted,  or 
woman  failed  to  understand.  I  can  see  her  now,  the 
colour  deepening  in  her  cheek  as  she  made  her  curtsey 
to  Archduke  Salvator.  Captain  JNIax  was  just  be- 
hind her,  the  Countess  and  I  at  one  side. 


168  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

The  Archduke — who  did  have  blue  eyes  and  black 
hair — was  about  to  return  Patsy's  salutation  with  his 
bow  of  ceremony  when  suddenly  he  looked  into  her 
face.  His  own  for  a  moment  was  a  study.  Then, 
gazing  over  her  shoulder  at  Captain  Max  in  his  glow- 
ering magnificence,  he  inquired  gravely:  "And  this, 
then,  is  the  uncle?" 

The  rose  swept  Patsy's  cheek  to  her  slender  neck. 
For  an  instant  she  hesitated;  then,  looking  straight 
at  me  instead  of  at  the  Archduke,  she  said  sturdily: 
"This  is  the  uncle's  nephew-to-be,  and  your  High- 
ness is  the  first  one  to  learn  of  it." 

Of  course  the  Countess  turned  faint,  and  all  but 
forgot  court  etiquette  in  a  frenzied  hunt  for  her 
salts;  and  the  Archduke  kissed  Patsy's  hand  and 
shook  Max's,  and  amid  a  host  of  incoherent  congratu- 
lations, discovered  that  he  and  Max  belonged  to  the 
same  regiment ;  and  somehow  we  bowed  ourselves  out 
of  the  Presence  and  into  the  gallery  again. 

The  Countess  embraced  Patsy,  wdthin  shelter  of 
a  blue — pasteboard — grotto,  and  would  have  carried 
her  off  for  a  good  cry,  but  Patsy  turned  to  me. 
"Uncle  Peter,"  she  swung  to  my  arm  with  that  de- 
structive wheedlesomeness  of  hers,  "Uncle  Peter,  you 
are  pleased?" 

Max,  too,  approached  me  with  an  anxiety  that 
would  have  fiattered  a  Pharaoh.  "Patsy,"  said  I,  ad- 
mirably concealing  my  overwhelming  surprise,  "I 
have  only  one  thing  to  say:  you  shall  be  the  one  to 
tell  your  mother!" 

Of  course  she  wasn't.    I  knew  from  the  first  that 


THE    CHILDREN'S    PERFORMANCE         169 

she  wouldn't  be;  and  I  meekly  endured  the  conse- 
quences. But  all  that  is  sequel.  For  the  rest  of  the 
Redoute  I  sat  with  the  Countess  in  the  jaws  of  a 
papier  mache  crocodile,  and  ate  macaroons  and  dis- 
cussed family  pedigree;  and  Patsy  and  my  nephew- 
elect  fed  off  glances  and  waltzed  till  five  in  the  morn- 
ing. It  was  the  most  hectic  evening  of  my  two  score 
years  and  ten. 

When  at  last  we  left  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  gaiety 
was  at  its  crest.  The  Court  had  departed  long  since, 
but  nymphs  and  nereids  whirled  more  madly  than 
ever,  Lorelies  spun  their  lures  with  deeper  cunning 
than  before — now  they  were  unmasked ;  and  mere  men 
were  being  drawn  forever  further  and  further  into 
the  giddy,  gorgeous  opalescence  of  the  maze.  In 
retrospect  they  seemed  caught  and  clung  to  by  the 
twining  ropes  of  coral;  mermaids  and  men  alike  en- 
meshed within  the  shining  seaweed  and  pale,  rosy 
shells — compassed,  held  about  by  the  blue-green  walls 
of  their  translucent  prison.  The  pearly  lights  gleamed 
softer,  the  music  of  the  sirens  floated  sweeter  and 
more  seductive  on  each  wave,  the  water  sprites  and 
cloudy  gulls  circled  and  swam  in  wilder,  lovelier  haze. 

And  then — the  wand  of  realism  swept  over  them. 
They  were  a  laughing,  twirling  crowd  of  Viennese, 
abandoned  to  the  intoxication  of  their  deity:  the 
dance.  Reckless,  pleasure-mad,  never  flagging  in 
pursuit  of  the  evanescent  joie  de  vivre,  they  became 
all  at  once  a  band  of  extravagant,  lovable  children 
who  had  stayed  up  too  late  and  ought  to  have  been 
put  to  bed. 


170  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

But  I  was  always  a  doting  uncle.  I  left  them  to 
their  revel,  and  departed.  I  shall  go  back  some  day, 
for  I  have  now  in  Vienna  the  gay,  the  gemiltlich,  a 
niece  named  Patsy — and  it  all  came  from  choosing  a 
train  that  arrived  before  breakfast! 


IV 
THE  BROKEN-DOWN  ACTOR 

(Madrid) 


THE   SOUL  OF  OLD   SPAIN 


I 

HIS  CORNER  APART 

In  spirit,  as  in  distance,  it  is  a  far  cry  from  the 
childlike  gaiety  and  extravagance  of  Vienna  to  the 
gloom  and  haughty  poverty  of  Madrid.  Gloomy  in 
its  psychic  rather  than  its  physical  aspects  is  this  city 
of  the  plain,  for  while  the  sun  scorches  in  summer 
and  the  wind  chills  in  winter,  thanks  to  the  quite  mod- 
ern architecture  of  New  Madrid,  there  is  ample  light 
and  space  all  the  year  round. 

Any  Spanish  history  will  tell  you  that  Charles  V 
chose  this  place  for  his  capital  because  the  climate 
was  good  for  his  gout.  One  author  maintains  that 
it  was  for  the  far  subtler  reason  that  Madrid  was 
neutral  ground  between  the  jealous  cities  of  Toledo, 
Valladolid  and  Seville.  But  everyone,  past  and  pres- 
ent, agrees  that  the  Spanish  capital  is  the  least  Span- 
ish of  any  town  in  the  kingdom.  It  shares  but  one 
distinctive  trait  with  the  rest  of  Spain — and  that  the 
dominant  trait  of  the  nation:  pride,  illimitable  and 
unconditioned,  in  the  glory  of  the  past;  oblivion  to 
the  ruin  of  the  present. 

Like  a  great  artist  whose  star  has  set,  Spain  sits 
aloof  from  the  modern  powers  she  despises ;  wrapped 
in  her  enshrouding  cloak  of  self-sufficiency,  she 
dreams  or  prattles  garrulously  of  the  days  when  she 

173 


174.  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

ruled  without  peer — not  heeding,  not  even  knowing, 
that  the  stage  today  is  changed  beyond  her  recog- 
nition. 

The  attitude  is,  however,  far  more  interesting  than 
the  bustle  and  mere  business  efficiency  of  the  typical 
modern  capital.  After  the  vastness  and  confusion  of 
Waterloo  and  St.  Lazare,  one  arrives  in  Madrid  at  a 
little  station  suggestive  of  a  sleepy  provincial  town. 
Porters  are  few  and  far  between,  and  one  generally 
carries  one's  own  bags  to  the  primitive  horse  cabs 
waiting  outside.  Taxis  are  almost  unheard  of,  and 
the  few  that  are  seen  demand  prices  as  fabulous  as 
those  of  New  York.  Every  Madrileno  who  can  pos- 
sibly afford  it  has  a  carriage,  but  the  rank  and  file 
use  the  funny  little  trams — which  I  must  say,  how- 
ever, are  excellently  conducted  and  most  convenient. 

Both  the  trams  and  all  streets  and  avenues  are 
plainly  marked  with  large  clear  signs,  and  the  pleas- 
ant compactness  of  the  city  makes  it  easy  to  find  one's 
way  about.  The  centre  of  life  and  activity  is  the 
Puerto  del  Sol — Gate  of  the  Sun — an  oval  plaza 
which  Spaniards  fondly  describe  as  "the  busiest 
square  in  the  world."  There  is  no  doubt  at  all  that 
it  is  the  noisiest;  with  its  clanging  trams,  rattling 
carriages,  shouting  street  vendors,  and  ambulant  mu- 
sicians. 

These  latter,  with  the  beggars,  form  to  my  mind 
the  greatest  plague  of  Madrid ;  their  number  is  legion, 
their  instruments  strangely  and  horribly  devised,  and 
they  have  the  immoral  generosity  to  play  on,  just 
the  same,  whether  you   give  them  money  or  not. 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  175 

Though,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  when  you  walk  in  the 
Puerta  del  Sol,  they  are  forever  under  your  feet, 
shaking  their  tin  cups  for  centimos  and  whining  for 
attention. 

I  infinitely  prefer  the  gentle-voiced  old  men — of 
whom  there  is  also  an  army — who  offer  soft  balls  of 
puppies  for  sale ;  and,  when  they  are  refused,  tenderly 
return  the  cherished  scrap  to  their  warm  pockets. 
The  swarm  of  impish  newsboys  are  hard  to  snub, 
too :  jMurillo  has  ingratiated  them  with  one  forever — 
their  rags  and  their  angelic  brown  eyes  in  rogues' 
faces. 

But  I  find  no  difficulty  at  all  in  refusing  the  beg- 
gars. These  are  of  every  age,  costume  and  infirmity ; 
and  enjoy  full  privilege  of  attacking  citizen  or 
stranger,  without  intervention  of  any  kind  by  the 
police.  A  Spanish  lady  naively  explained  to  me  that 
they  had  indeed  tried  to  deal  with  the  beggars;  that 
the  government  had  once  deported  them  one  and  all 
to  the  places  where  they  were  born — for  of  course 
none  of  them  came  originally  from  Madrid!  But, 
would  I  believe  it,  within  a  week  they  were  all  back 
again?  Perhaps  I,  as  a  foreigner,  could  not  under- 
stand how  the  poor  creatures  simply  loved  INIadrid 
too  passionately  to  remain  away. 

I  assured  the  senora  gravely  I  could  understand. 
In  fact,  it  seems  to  me  entirely  normal  to  be  pas- 
sionately attached  to  a  place  that  yields  one  a  tidy 
income  for  nothing.  No,  rather  for  the  extensive  de- 
velopment and  use  of  one's  persuasive  powers.  Im- 
agination, too,  and  diplomacy  must  be  employed ;  and 


176  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

sometimes  the  nice  art  of  "coming  down."  The 
monologue  rmis  hke  this: 

"Good  afternoon,  gentleman.  The  gentleman  is 
surely  the  most  handsome,  the  most  kind-hearted,  the 
best-dressed,  and  most  polite  of  all  the  world.  If  the 
gentleman  could  part  with  a  peseta — nine-pence — to 
a  brother  in  deepest  woe,  God  would  reward  him. 
God  would  give  him  still  more  elegant  health  and 
more  ravishing  children.  If  he  has  no  children,  God 
would  certainly  send  him  some — for  only  half  a 
peseta,  oh,  gracious  gentleman.  To  a  brother  whose 
afflictions  could  not  be  recited  from  now  till  the  end 
of  the  world,  so  multiple,  so  heartrending  are  they. 
I  am  an  old  man  of  seventy,  oh,  most  beautiful  gen- 
tleman— old  as  the  gentleman's  illustrious  father,  may 
Mary  and  the  angels  grant  him  long  life!  Only 
twenty  centimos,  my  gentleman — God  will  give  you 
a  million.  Ten  centimos — five!  .  .  .  Caramha!  a 
curse  on  your  hideous  face  and  loping  gait.  There 
is  no  uglier  toad  this  side  of  hell!" 

One  thing  beggars  can  choose  with  proficiency: 
their  language.  In  Madrid  they  would  be  less  dis- 
gusting were  it  not  for  their  loathsome  diseases  and 
deformities.  The  government  is  far  too  poor  to 
isolate  them  in  asylums,  so  they  continue  to  possess 
the  streets  and  the  already  overcrowded  Gate  of  the 
Sun. 

From  this  plaza  the  principal  thoroughfares  of 
the  city  branch  off  in  a  sort  of  wheel,  and  mules,  goats 
and  donkeys  laden  with  every  imaginable  sort  of  bur- 
den pass  to  and  fro  at  all  hours  of  day  and  night. 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  177 

Shops  there  are,  of  course,  of  various  kinds;  and 
cafes  crowded  round  the  square;  but  the  waiters  carry 
the  trays  on  their  heads,  and  the  whole  atmosphere  is 
that  of  a  mediaeval  interior  town  rather  than  a  mod- 
ern cosmopolitan  city. 

To  be  sure,  in  Alcala,  the  principal  street  off  the 
Puerta  del  Sol,  there  are  clubs  and  up-to-date  restau- 
rants ;  but  only  men  are  supposed  to  go  to  the  restau- 
rants, and  in  the  clubs  they  look  ill  at  ease  and  incon- 
gruous. The  life  of  the  Spaniard  is  inalienably  the 
life  in  the  streets,  where  you  will  find  him  at  all  hours, 
strolling  along  in  his  clothes  of  fantastic  cut  and 
colour  or  sitting  at  a  cafe,  drinking  horchatas — the 
favourite  beverage,  made  from  a  little  nut.  His  con- 
stant expression  is  a  steady  stare;  varying  from  the 
dreamily  absent-minded  to  the  crudely  vulgar  and 
licentious. 

The  widely  diversified  ancestry  of  the  Spanish 
people  is  keenly  interesting  to  follow  out  in  the  fea- 
tures of  the  men  and  women  of  today;  among  no 
race  is  there  greater  variety  of  type,  though  it  is  four 
hundred  years  since  the  IMoors  and  Jews  were  driven 
out,  and  new  blood  has  been  practically  excluded  from 
Spain.  Yet  one  sees  the  INIoorish  and  Jewish  casts  as 
distinct  today  as  ever  they  were;  to  say  nothing  of 
the  aquiline  Roman  or  the  ruddy  Gothic  types  from 
the  far  more  ancient  period. 

In  names,  too,  history  is  eloquent:  we  find  Ed- 
wigis,  Gertrudis,  and  Clotilde  of  the  Gothic  days; 
Zenaida  and  Agueda  of  the  JNIoorish;  Raquel,  Ester 
of  the  Jewish.     I  think  that  in  no  language  is  there 


178  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

such  variety  or  beauty  in  women's  names.  Take,  for 
example,  Consuelo,  Amparo  (Succour),  Luz — pro- 
nounced Luth  and  meaning  Light — or  Fehcitas,  Ro- 
sario,  Pilar,  Soledad,  and  a  wealth  of  others  as  liquid 
and  as  significant. 

It  is  hard  to  attach  them  to  the  rather  mediocre 
women  one  sees  in  the  streets  on  their  way  to  mass: 
dressed  in  cheap  tailored  frocks,  a  flimsy  width  of 
black  net  over  their  heads.  The  mantilla  is  no  longer 
current  in  Madrid,  except  for  fiestas  and  as  the  caprice 
of  the  wealthy ;  but  this  shoddy  offspring  of  the  man- 
tilla— the  inferior  black  veil — is  everywhere  seen  on 
all  classes  of  women.  The  Madrilena  who  wears  a 
hat  announces  herself  rich  beyond  recounting,  and  is 
charged  accordingly  in  the  shops.  Needless  to  say, 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  fixed  price  in  any  but  the 
places  of  foreign  origin. 

I  have  often  wondered  whether  Spanish  women 
are  stupid  because  they  are  kept  in  such  seclusion  or 
whether  they  are  secluded  because  they  are  stupid. 
It  is  hard  to  separate  the  cause  from  the  effect.  But 
certainly  the  Spanish  beauty  of  song  and  story  is 
rarer  than  rubies  to-day;  while  the  animation  that 
gives  charm  even  to  an  ugly  French  or  American 
woman  is  utterly  lacking  in  the  Espanolas  heavy, 
rather  sensual  features.  I  am  inclined  to  think,  from 
the  fact  that  it  is  saliently  a  man's  country,  she  is  as 
he  has  made  her,  or  allowed  her  to  become.  And 
when  you  remember  that  her  highest  enjoyment  is  to 
drive  through  the  rough-paved  streets,  hour  after 
hour,  that  she  may  see  and  be  seen;  when  you  con- 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  179 

sider  that  the  rest  of  her  day  is  spent  in  a  cheerless 
house  without  a  book  or  a  magazine,  or  any  occupa- 
tion but  menial  household  dinidgery,  you  pity  rather 
than  condemn  the  profound  ignorance  of  the  average 
Spanish  woman. 

Married  at  sixteen,  the  mother  of  four  or  five  chil- 
dren by  the  time  she  is  twenty-five,  she  grows  old 
before  her  time  even  as  a  Latin  woman.  While  by 
men  she  is  disregarded  and  treated  with  a  rudeness 
and  lack  of  respect  revolting  to  the  Anglo-Saxon. 
Her  husband  precedes  her  into  and  out  of  the  room, 
leaves  her  the  less  comfortable  seat,  blows  smoke  in 
her  face,  and  expectorates  in  her  presence;  all  as  a 
matter  of  course,  which  she  accepts  in  the  same  spirit. 
Her  raison  d'etr^e  is  as  a  female ;  nothing  more.  What 
wonder  that  the  brain  she  has  is  expended  in  gossip 
and  intrigue  and  that  her  husband  openly  admits  he 
cannot  trust  her  out  of  his  sight? 

Like  the  Eastern  women  she  resembles,  she  is 
superstitiously  devout;  as,  indeed,  the  men  are,  too, 
when  they  remember  to  be.  All  the  morning,  week- 
days as  well  as  Sunday,  the  churches  are  full;  one 
mass  succeeds  another.  It  is  a  favourite  habit  of  the 
younger  men  to  wait  outside  the  fashionable  churches 
until  the  girls  and  their  duenas  come  out,  and  then 
to  remark  quite  audibly  on  the  charms  of  the  former. 
The  compliments  are  of  the  most  bare-faced  variety, 
but  are  affably  received;  even  sometimes  returned  by 
a  discreet  retort  sotto  voce.  The  blades  call  the  cus- 
tom "throwing  flowers" ;  and  the  bolder  of  the  maid- 


180  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

ens  are  apt  to  fling  back  over  their  shoulder,  "thanks 
for  the  flower!" 

One  can  always  see  this  little  comedy  outside  the 
well-known  church  of  San  Isidro — patron  saint  of 
Madrid — which,  with  the  more  important  clubs  and 
public  buildings,  is  in  the  Street  of  the  Alcala.  The 
Alcala  connects  the  Puerta  del  Sol  with  the  famous 
promenades  of  the  Prado  and  the  Castellana,  which 
are  joined  together  by  an  imposing  plaza  with  a  foun- 
tain, and  extend  as  far  as  the  park  of  the  Retiro. 

Spaniards  are  firmly  convinced  that  the  Castel- 
lana is  finer  than  the  Champs  Elysees;  but  it  is,  in 
reality,  a  rather  stupid  avenue — broad,  and  with 
plenty  of  trees  in  pots  of  water,  yet  quite  flat,  and 
lacking  the  quaint  guignols  and  smart  restaurants 
that  give  color  to  the  French  promenade.  Galician 
nursemaids,  with  their  enormous  earrings,  congregate 
round  the  ice-cream  booths,  while  their  overdressed 
charges  play  "bullfight"  or  "circus"  in  the  allees 
nearby. 

But  the  Castellana  is  an  empty  stretch  of  sand, 
for  the  most  part,  until  half -past  six  in  the  evening, 
when  it  becomes  for  an  hour  or  two  the  liveliest  quar- 
ter of  the  city.  The  mansions  on  either  side  of  the 
street  open  their  gates,  carriages  roll  forth,  senoras 
in  costumes  of  French  cut  but  startling  hue  are 
bowled  into  the  central  driveway,  senors  in  equally 
impressive  garments  appear  on  horseback,  and  the 
"paseo'* — the  event  of  the  day — has  begun. 

Strangers  who  have  not  been  asked  to  dine  with 
their  Spanish  friends  because  the  latter  cannot  afl'ord 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  181 

a  cook  will  be  repeatedly  taken  to  drive  in  a  luxuri- 
ous equipage  with  two  men  on  the  box  and  a  pair  of 
high-stepping  bays.  For  a  Spanish  family  will 
scrimp  and  save,  and  sometimes  actually  half  starve, 
in  order  to  maintain  its  place  in  the  dailj^  procession 
on  the  Castellana.  This  is  true  of  all  classes,  from 
the  impoverished  aristocracy  to  the  struggling  bour- 
geoisie ;  and  is  so  much  a  racial  characteristic  that  the 
same  holds  in  JNIanila,  Havana,  and  many  of  the 
South  American  cities.  What  his  house  is  to  the 
Englishman,  his  trip  to  Europe  to  the  American,  his 
carriage  is  to  the  Spaniard.  With  this  hallmark  of 
social  solvency  he  can  hold  up  his  head  with  the  proud- 
est ;  without  it  he  is  an  outcast. 

The  iSIadrilenos  tell  among  themselves  of  certain 
ladies  who  afford  the  essential  victoria  by  dressing 
f ashionablj"  from  the  waist  up  only.  A  carriage  rug 
covers  the  other  and  well-worn  part  of  their  apparel. 
This  is  consistent  with  stories  of  economy  carried  into 
the  smallest  item  of  the  household  expenses — such  as 
cooking  without  salt  or  pepper,  and  foregoing  a  table- 
cloth— in  order  that  the  family  name  may  appear 
among  the  box-holders  at  the  opera.  Spanish  people 
look  upon  these  sacrifices,  when  they  know  them,  as 
altogether  admirable;  from  peasant  to  grandee,  they 
are  forever  aiding  and  abetting  each  other  at  that 
most  pitiful  of  all  games:  keeping  up  appearances. 
But,  however  petty  the  apparent  motive,  there  is  a 
certain  tragic  courage  behind  it;  the  desperate,  final 
courage  of  the  grand  artiste,  refusing  to  admit  that 


18^  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

his  day  is  dead.  And  under  all  his  burdens,  all  his 
bitter  poverty,  silent,  uncomplaining. 

Seen  in  this  light,  that  stately  queue  of  carriages 
on  the  Castellana  takes  on  something  more  than  its 
mere  superficial  significance — which  is  to  show  one- 
self, and  further  to  show  one's  daughters.  Officers 
and  civilians  walk  up  and  down,  on  either  side  of  the 
driveway,  or  canter  along  near  the  carriages,  with  one 
object:  to  stare  at  the  young  girls.  Far  from  being 
snubbed,  their  interest  is  welcomed  with  complaisance, 
and  many  and  many  a  marriage  is  arranged  from  one 
of  these  encounters  on  the  Castellana. 

The  young  man  notices  the  same  girl  for  two 
or  three  days,  then  asks  to  be  presented  to  her;  the 
heads  of  the  two  families  confer,  finances  are  frankly 
discussed,  and,  if  everything  is  found  satisfactory, 
the  courtship  is  allowed  to  proceed.  Parents  are  gen- 
erally easy  to  satisfy,  too,  being  in  frantic  haste  to 
marry  off  their  daughters.  The  old  maid  and  the 
bachelor  girl  are  unknown  quantities  in  Spain,  and  an 
officer  with  a  salary  of  five  pounds  a  month  is  eagerly 
snapped  up  as  an  excellent  catch. 

This  gives  some  idea  of  the  absolute  pittance 
whole  families  are  used  to  live  on,  and  to  consider 
ample.  The  bare  necessities  of  life  are  gratefully 
counted  by  Spaniards  as  luxuries;  while  luxuries,  in 
the  modern  sense  of  the  word,  are  practically  unheard 
of.  Private  motor  cars,  for  example,  are  so  rare  as 
to  be  noticed  when  they  pass  through  the  streets; 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  a  sleek  pair  of  mules  is  con- 
sidered almost  as  emphatic  a  sign  of  prosperity  as  a 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  183 

pair  of  horses.  It  is  an  everyday  sight  to  see  the  gold 
cockades  of  royalty,  or  the  silver  of  nobility,  on  the 
box  behind  two  mules.  And  a  Spaniard  realizes  noth- 
ing curious  about  this.  If  it  is  a  habit  of  his  country- 
men, it  is  right,  and  proper,  and  elegant,  and  to  be 
emulated  by  all  who  can  afford  it. 

If  you  tell  him,  moreover,  of  the  conveniences  of 
other  countries — not  in  comparison  with  his  own,  but 
quite  casually — he  looks  at  you  with  an  indulgent 
smile,  and  believes  not  a  word  of  it.  He  himself  is 
far  too  poor  to  travel,  so  that  naturally  he  is  skepti- 
cal of  what  he  calls  "traveller's  tales."  I  once  showed 
a  Marques  whom  I  was  entertaining  in  Madrid  a  pic- 
ture of  the  JNIetropolitan  Tower  in  New  York.  He 
laughed,  like  an  amused  child.  "Those  Americans! 
They  are  always  boasting,"  he  said,  "but  one  must 
confess  they  are  clever  to  construct  a  photograph  like 
that."  Nor  was  I  able  to  convince  him  during  the 
remainder  of  the  evening  that  such  a  building  and 
many  others  as  tall  actually  did  exist. 

The  old  actor  sits  with  his  eyes  glued  to  his  own 
pictures,  mesmerizing  himself  into  the  belief  that  they 
are  now  as  ever  they  w^re:  representative  of  the 
greatest  star  of  all  the  stage.  He  cares  not  to  study 
the  methods  of  the  new  generation,  for  he  loftily 
ignores  its  existence.  Tradition  is  the  poison  that 
infests  his  bones,  and  is  surely  eating  them  away. 

He  has  a  son  who  would  save  him  if  the  dotard 
would  permit:  a  tall  young  man,  with  a  splendid 
carriage  and  an  ugly,  magnetic  face — alert  to  every 
detail  of  modern  regime.     But  the  young  man  is  a 


184  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

king,  and  kings,  as  everyone  knows,  have  the  least 
power  of  anybody.  Alfonso  XIII,  with  aU  his  in- 
defatigable energy,  can  leaven  but  a  very  small  lump 
of  the  blind  self-sufficiency  of  Spain.  He  plays  a 
hopeless  part  bravely  and  is  harder-working  than  most 
of  his  peasants. 

His  palace  stands  at  the  edge  of  old  Madrid,  on 
the  high  land  above  the  river,  where  the  old  Moorish 
Alcazar  once  stood:  a  magnificent  situation.  The 
fa9ade  fronts  and  dominates  the  city;  the  rear  looks 
out  on  the  river  Mazanares  and  beyond,  on  the  royal 
park  of  the  Casa  del  Campo.  Here  one  can  often 
see  the  King  shooting  pigeons  in  the  afternoon  or 
taking  tea  with  the  Queen  and  the  Queen  Mother. 
The  people  are  not  permitted  in  this  park,  but  for- 
eigners may  apply  for  a  card  of  admission  and  go 
there  at  any  time,  provided  their  coachman  is  in  livery. 

One  Sunday  I  saw  the  royal  children,  with  their 
nurses,  building  a  bonfire  in  a  corner  of  the  park. 
They  were  shouting  and  running  about  most  lustily, 
and  it  was  a  relief  to  see  royalty — though  at  the  age 
of  three  and  four — having  a  good  time.  The  little 
Prince  of  the  Asturias  was  in  uniform,  Prince  Jaime 
in  sailor's  togs,  and  the  two  small  Infantas  in  white 
frocks  with  blue  sashes.  They  all  looked  simply  and 
comfortably  dressed,  and  a  credit  to  the  good  sense  of 
their  father  and  mother.  The  nurses,  who  are  Eng- 
lishwomen— pink-cheeked  and  cheerful — wore  plain 
blue  cotton  frocks  and  shady  straw  hats,  like  anyone 
else's  nurses.    It  was  a  satisfying  picture,  after  the 


THE   QUEEN   OF   SPAIN    AND   THE    PRINCE   OF   THE    ASTURIAS 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  185 

elaborateness  and  false  show  that  surround  the  aver- 
age Spanish  child. 

Of  all  the  royal  children,  Jaime  is  the  beloved  of 
the  people.  He  has  a  singularly  sweet  and  at  the  same 
time  animated  face,  and,  the  SjDaniards  proudly  de- 
clare, is  the  true  Spanish  type.  Doubtless,  too,  his 
sad  infirmity — he  was  born  a  deaf  mute — and  his  pa- 
tience and  cleverness  in  coping  with  it  have  endeared 
this  little  prince  to  everybody. 

The  reigning  Spanish  family  are  the  last  of  the 
powerful  Bourbons,  and  their  court  is  conducted  with 
all  the  Bourbon  etiquette  of  Louis  XIV.  It  is  a  less 
brilhant  court  than  the  Austrian,  being  very  much 
poorer,  but  the  shining  white  grandeur  of  the  palace 
itself  makes  up  for  elegance  foregone  by  the  cour- 
tiers. For  once,  Spain's  overweening  pride  is  justi- 
fied: she  boasts  the  loveliest  royal  residence  of  any 
nation. 

An  interesting  time  to  visit  it  is  at  Guard  Mount 
in  the  morning.  Then  the  beautiful  inner  court  is 
filled  with  Lancers  in  plumed  helmets  and  brilliant 
blue  uniforms,  riding  splendidly  matched  roans.  Two 
companies  of  infantry,  in  their  darker  blue  and  red, 
line  the  hollow  square;  and  in  the  centre  are  the  offi- 
cers, magnificently  mounted  and  aglitter  with  gold 
braid  and  orders.  They  advance  into  the  court  to  the 
slow  and  stately  measure  of  the  Royal  INIarch,  and 
sometimes  the  King  appears  on  the  balcony  above — 
to  the  delight  of  the  people,  who  are  allowed  to  cir- 
culate freely  in  the  passages  of  the  pillared  patio. 

Peasants  are  there  by  the  score,  in  their  shabby 


186  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

earth-brown  corduroys,  and  soft-eyed  girls  with  stout 
duenas,  swaying  fans  between  the  threadbare  fingers 
of  their  cheap  cotton  gloves.  Students  with  faded 
capes  swung  from  their  shoulders ;  swarms  of  children 
and  shuffling  old  men  in  worn  sombreros ;  priests,  bull- 
fighters, beggars,  and  vendors  of  everything  from 
sweetmeats  to  bootlaces,  wander  in  and  out  the  ar- 
cades while  the  band  plays. 

In  spite  of  the  modern  uniforms  of  the  soldiers, 
it  is  a  scene  out  of  another  age :  a  sleepy,  sunny  age, 
when  all  the  simple  people  demanded  was  a  heel  of 
bread  and  the  occasional  spectacle  of  the  pomp  of 
their  masters.  Yet  it  is  the  Spain  of  to-day;  in  the 
foreground  its  brave  show  of  traditional  splendour; 
peering  out  from  behind,  its  penury  and  rags. 

The  old  actor  sees  none  of  this.  In  his  forgotten 
corner  he  has  wound  himself  within  his  gorgeous  tat- 
tered cloak  of  long  ago;  and  crouches  into  it,  eyes 
closed  upon  a  vision  in  which  he  never  ceases  to  play 
the  part  of  Casar. 


II 

HIS    ARTS    AND    AMUSEMENTS 

Pan  y  toros!  The  old  "Bread  and  the  circus"  of 
the  Romans,  the  mediseval  and  modern  "Bread  and 
the  bulls!"  of  Spain.  One  feels  that  the  dance  should 
have  been  worked  in,  really  to  make  this  cry  of  the 
people  complete.  For  in  the  bullfight  and  the  ancient 
national  dances  we  have  the  very  soul  of  Spain. 

Progressive  Spaniards  like  to  think  the  corrida  de 
toros  is  gradually  dying  out;  many,  many  people  in 
Madrid,  they  tell  you,  would  not  think  of  attending 
one.  This  is  true,  though  generally  the  motive  be- 
hind it  is  financial  rather  than  humane.  And  the  great 
mass  of  the  people,  aristocracy  as  well  as  bourgeoisie, 
put  the  bulls  first,  and  go  hungry  for  the  bread  if 
necessary.  Every  small  boy,  be  he  royal  or  beggar, 
plays  "bullfight"  from  the  time  he  can  creep;  every 
small  girls  looks  on  admiringly,  and  claps  her  hands. 
And  when  the  small  boy  is  gro'vvn,  and  dazzles  the 
Bull  Ring  with  his  daring  toi^eo,  the  girl  in  her  bril- 
liant dancer's  dress  still  applauds  and  flings  him  her 
carnations.  Throughout  Spain  the  two  are  wedded  in 
actual  personal  passion,  as  in  symbolic  truth. 

It  is  said  that  the  bullfight  was  founded  by  the 
]Moors  in  Spain  in  the  twelfth  century,  though  bulls 

187 


188  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

were  probably  fought  with  before  that  in  the  Roman 
amphitheatres.  The  principle  on  which  the  play  de- 
pends is  courage,  coolness,  and  dexterity — the  three- 
in-one  characteristics  of  the  Arabs  of  the  desert.  In 
early  days  gentlemen,  armed  only  with  a  short  spear, 
fought  with  the  bulls,  and  proved  their  skill  and 
horsemanship.  But  with  the  coming  of  the  Bourbons 
as  the  reigning  house  of  Spain  the  sport  changed 
from  a  fashionable  into  a  national  one,  and  profes- 
sional bullfighters  took  the  place  of  the  courtly  play- 
ers of  before. 

It  is  by  no  means  true,  however — as  so  many  for- 
eigners imagine — that  the  toreros  are  invariably  men 
of  mean  birth  and  vulgar  education.  On  the  con- 
trary, they  are  frequently  of  excellent  parentage  and 
great  mental  as  well  as  physical  capability;  while  al- 
ways their  keen  science  and  daring  make  them  an 
aristocracy  of  themselves  which  the  older  aristocracy 
delights  to  worship.  They  are  the  friends  and  favour- 
ites of  society,  the  idols  of  the  populace;  you  never 
see  one  of  them  in  the  streets  without  an  admiring 
train  of  hangers-on,  and  the  newspapers  record  the 
slightest  item  in  connection  with  each  fighter  of  the 
hour.  Whole  pages  are  filled  with  photographs  of 
the  various  feats  and  characteristic  poses  of  distin- 
guished toreros;  and  so  well  known  do  these  become 
that  an  audience  in  the  theatre  recognizes  at  once  an 
"imitation"  of  Bombita,  or  Gallito,  or  Machaquito — 
and  shouts  applause. 

Even  the  average  bullfighter  is  a  rich  man  and 
known  for  his  generosity  as  well.    Directly  there  is  a 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  189 

disaster — railway  accident,  explosion  or  flood — a  cor- 
rida is  arranged  for  the  sufferers;  and  the  whole  band 
of  fighters  give  their  earnings  to  the  cause.  The 
usual  profits  of  a  skilled  torero  are  seven  thousand 
pesetas — two  hundred  and  eighty  pounds — a  per- 
formance. Out  of  this  he  must  pay  his  assistants 
about  three  thousand  pesetas,  and  the  rest  he  has  for 
himself.  When  not  the  lover  of  some  famous  dancer, 
he  is  often  a  married  man,  and  they  say,  aside  from 
his  dangerous  profession,  makes  an  excellent  husband 
and  father.  One  and  all,  the  bullfighters  are  relig- 
ious ;  the  last  thing  they  do  before  entering  the  arena 
is  to  confess  and  receive  absolution  in  the  little  chapel 
at  the  Bull  Ring,  and  a  priest  remains  with  extreme 
unction  always  in  readiness  in  case  of  serious  ac- 
cident. 

The  great  part  of  the  bullfighters  come  from 
Andalucia — there  is  an  academy  at  Seville  to  teach 
the  science — but  some  are  from  the  North  and  from 
jNIexico  and  South  America,  and  all  are  impatient  to 
fight  at  JNIadrid,  since  successful  toreo  in  this  city 
constitutes  the  bullfighter's  diploma.  At  the  first — 
and  so  of  course  the  most  exciting — fight  I  saw  the 
matadors  were  Bombita  and  Gallito,  from  Seville, 
and  Gaona,  from  INIexico.  The  latter  was  even  more 
cordially  received  by  the  Spaniards  than  their  own 
countrymen  after  they  saw  his  splendid  play;  but 
Bombita  is  acknowledged  the  best  matador — killer — 
in  Spain,  and  Gallito,  a  mere  boy  of  eighteen,  is 
adored  by  the  people.  Each  of  the  three  killed  two 
bulls  on  the  afternoon  I  attended  my  first  corrida. 


190  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  change  that  comes 
over  the  whole  aspect  and  atmosphere  of  JNIadrid  on 
the  day  of  a  bullfight.  The  old  actor  in  his  corner 
rubs  his  eyes,  shakes  himself  and  looks  alive.  Crowds 
are  in  the  streets,  buckboards  packed  with  country 
people  dash  through  the  Puerta  del  Sol  and  towards 
the  Plaza  de  Toros;  the  languid  madrilerw  in  the 
cafes  is  roused  to  rapid  talk  and  excited  betting 
with  his  neighbour,  and  in  the  clubs,  where  the  toreros 
are  gathered  in  their  gorgeous  costumes,  the  bet- 
ting runs  higher.  Ticket  booths  are  surrounded 
by  a  mob  of  eager  enthusiasts,  while  behind  her 
grating  the  senora  is  shaking  out  her  mantilla, 
fixing  the  great  red  and  white  carnations  in  her 
hair,  draping  the  lace  above  them  and  her  monstrous 
comb.  A  carriage  drives  swiftly  down  the  street  to 
her  door,  her  husband  hurries  in,  calling  impetuously 
to  make  haste.  The  slumbrous  eyes  of  the  lady  catch 
fire  with  a  thousand  sparks ;  she  clicks  her  fan,  flashes 
a  last  triumphant  smile  into  her  mirror,  and  is  swept 
away  to  the  Bull  Ring. 

Here  all  is  seething  anticipation:  the  immense 
coliseum  black  with  people  moving  to  their  seats  or 
standing  up  to  watch  the  crowd  in  the  arena  below; 
Royalty  just  arrived,  Doiia  Isabel  and  her  ladies  lin- 
ing the  velvet-hung  box  with  their  picturesque  man- 
tillas ;  the  President  of  the  Bull  Ring  taking  his  place 
of  honour ;  ladies  unfurling  fans  and  gossiping,  afici- 
onados waving  to  one  another  across  the  ring  and  call- 
ing final  excited  bets;  small  boys  shouting  cushions, 
cigarettes,  postcards,  or  beer  and  horchatas.     Sud- 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  191 

denly  a  bugle  sounds.  People  scuttle  to  their  seats, 
the  arena  is  cleared  as  by  magic,  and,  to  a  burst  of 
music  and  thunderous  applause  from  ten  thousand 
pairs  of  hands,  the  splendid  entrada  takes  place. 

Matadors  in  their  bright  suits  heavj^  with  gold, 
handerilleros  in  their  silver,  yicadors  on  their  sorry 
horses,  march  proudly  round  the  ring ;  while  the  band 
plays  and  the  crowd  shouts  itself  hoarse — just  for  a 
starter.  Then  the  picadors  go  out,  the  torero  who  is 
to  kill  the  first  bull  asks  the  President  for  the  keys 
to  the  ring ;  the  President  throws  them  into  the  arena, 
and — the  first  bull  is  loosed! 

From  this  point  on  there  is  no  wit  in  regarding  the 
spectacle  from  a  humane  or  sentimental  standpoint. 
He  who  is  inclined  to  do  so  had  better  never  have  left 
home.  If  he  has  eyes  for  the  prodigal  bloodshed,  the 
torture  of  the  bull  with  the  piercing  darts,  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  horses,  he  will  be  acutely  wretched  from 
beginning  to  end.  But  if  he  can  fix  his  attention 
solely  on  the  beauty  of  the  torei^o's  body  in  constant 
action,  on  the  utter  fearlessness  and  superb  audacity 
of  the  man  in  his  taunting  the  beast;  if,  in  short,  he 
can  concentrate  on  the  science  and  skill  of  the  thing, 
he  will  have  something  worth  remembering  all  liis 
life. 

I  shall  never  forget  Bombita,  with  his  grave, 
curiously  detached  expression,  his  dark  face  almost 
indifferent  as  he  came  forward  to  kill  the  first  bull. 
This  is  by  far  the  most  interesting  part  of  the  fight — 
after  the  horses  have  been  disposed  of  and  the  stupid 
picadors  have  made  their  exit — when  the  matador  ad- 


192  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

vances  with  his  sword  sheathed  in  the  red  muleta. 
He  has  made  his  speech  to  the  President,  he  has  or- 
dered his  assistants  to  retire  to  the  background,  and 
he  and  the  bull  face  one  another  alone  in  the  centre 
of  the  arena. 

Then  comes  the  lightning  move  of  every  moment 
in  the  encounter  between  man  and  beast.  The  spot 
between  the  shoulders  where  the  bull  is  killed  covers 
only  about  three  inches,  and  must  be  struck  absolutely 
true — or  the  crowd  is  furious.  At  best  it  is  exceed- 
ingly capricious,  hissing,  whistling  and  shouting  on 
the  slightest  provocation,  but  going  literally  mad  over 
each  incident  of  the  matador's  daring;  and  finally, 
if  he  makes  a  "neat  kill,"  throwing  their  hats  and 
coats — anything — into  the  arena  while  the  air  rever- 
berates with  "Bravos!" 

Meantime,  however,  the  matador  plays  with  death 
every  second.  He  darts  towards  the  bull,  taunting 
the  now  maddened  beast  with  the  fiery  muleta,  mock- 
ing him,  talking  to  him,  even  turning  his  back  to  him 
— only  to  leap  round  and  beside  him  in  the  wink  of 
an  eye  when  the  bull  would  have  gored  him  to  death. 
Young  Gallito  strokes  his  second  bull  from  head  to 
mouth  several  times;  Gaona  lays  his  hat  on  the  ani- 
mal's horns,  and  carelessly  removes  it  again;  while 
Bombita,  who  is  veritable  quicksilver,  has  his  magnifi- 
cent clothes  torn  to  pieces  but  remains  himself  un- 
scratched  in  his  breath-taking  manoeuvres  with  the 
beast.  Finally,  with  a  swift  gesture,  he  raises  his 
arm,  casts  aside  the  muleta,  drives  his  sword  straight 
and  true  between  the  shoulders  of  his  adversary.    A 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  193 

shout  goes  up — wild  as  that  of  the  Cohseum  of  old: 
"Bombita!  Bombita!  El  matador — Bomhita!"  And 
we  know  that  the  bull  is  dead,  but  that  Bombita,  who 
has  been  teasing  death,  scoffing  at  it,  for  the  last 
twenty  minutes,  lives — triumphant. 

And  what  is  it  all  about?  Atrocious  cruelty,  a 
bit  of  bravado,  and  ecco!  A  hero!  Exactly.  Just 
as  in  the  prize  ring,  the  football  field,  or  an  exhibition 
of  jiu-jitsu.  We  pay  to  be  shocked,  terrified,  and 
finally  thrilled;  by  that  which  we  have  neither  the 
skill  nor  the  courage  to  attempt  ourselves.  But,  you 
say,  these  other  things  are  fair  sport — man  to  man; 
we  Anglo-Saxons  do  not  torture  defenceless  animals. 
What  about  fox  hunting?  There  is  not  even  the  dig- 
nity of  danger  in  the  English  sport;  if  the  hunter 
risks  his  life,  it  is  only  as  a  bad  rider  that  he  does  so. 
And  certainly  the  wretched  foxes,  fostered  and  cared 
for  solely  for  the  purpose  of  being  harried  to  death, 
are  treated  to  far  more  exquisite  cruelty  than  the 
worn-out  cab  horses  of  the  bullfight — whose  suffer- 
ings are  a  matter  of  a  few  minutes. 

I  am  not  defending  the  brutality  of  the  bullfight ; 
I  merely  maintain  that  Anglo-Saxons  have  very  little 
room  to  attack  it  from  the  superiority  of  their  own 
humaneness.  And  also  that  Spaniards  themselves  are 
far  from  gloating  over  the  sickening  details  of  their 
sport  as  they  are  often  said  to  do.  In  every  bullfight 
I  have  attended  the  crowd  has  been  impatient,  even 
exasperated,  if  the  horses  were  not  killed  at  once  and 
the  picadors  put  out  of  the  ring.  We  need  not 
greater  tolerance  of  cruelty,  but  greater  knowledge 


194  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

of  fact,  in  the  study  and  criticism  of  things  foreign 
to  us. 

I  doubt,  for  instance,  if  any  person  who  has  not 
Hved  in  Madrid  knows  that  every  man  who  buys  a 
ticket  to  the  bullfight  is  paying  the  hospital  bill  of 
some  unfortunate ;  for  the  President  of  the  Bull  Ring 
is  taxed  ten  thousand  pounds  a  year  for  his  privilege, 
and  the  government  uses  this  money  for  the  upkeep 
of  charity  hospitals. 

One  cannot  say  as  much  for  the  proceeds  of  the 
stupid  sport  of  cock  fighting — nor  anything  in  its 
favour  at  all.  Patrons  of  the  cockpit  are  for  the  most 
part  low-browed  ruffians  with  coarse  faces,  and  given 
to  loud  clothes  and  tawdry  jewellery.  They  stand  up 
in  their  seats  and  scream  bets  at  one  another  during 
the  entire  performance,  each  trying  to  find  "takers" 
without  missing  a  single  incident  of  the  contest.  The 
bedlam  this  creates  can  only  be  compared  with  the 
wheat  pit  in  Chicago;  while  to  one's  own  mind  there 
is  small  sport  in  the  banal  encounter  of  one  feathered 
thing  with  another,  however  gallant  the  two  may  be. 

More  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  taste  is  the  Spanish 
game  of  pelota:  a  kind  of  racquets,  played  in  a  three- 
sided  oblong  court  about  four  times  the  length  of  a 
racquet  court.  The  fourth  side  of  the  court  is  open, 
with  seats  and  boxes  arranged  for  spectators,  and 
bookmakers  walk  along  in  front,  offering  and  taking 
wagers.  At  certain  periods  of  the  game  there  is 
much  excitement. 

It  is  played  two  on  a  side — sometimes  more — the 
lighter  men  about  halfway  up  the  court,  the  stronger 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  195 

near  the  end.  The  ball  used  is  similar  to  a  racquet 
ball  and  is  played  the  long  way  of  the  court;  but, 
instead  of  a  bat,  the  player  has  a  basketwork  scoop 
which  fits  tight  on  his  hand  and  forearm.  The  object 
of  the  game  is  for  one  side  to  serve  the  ball  against 
the  opposite  wall,  and  for  the  other  side  to  return  it; 
so  that  the  ball  remains  in  play  until  a  miss  is  scored 
by  one  of  the  two  sides.  Should  the  side  serving  fail 
to  return,  the  service  passes  to  the  opponents.  A  miss 
scores  one  for  the  opponents,  and  the  game  usually 
consists  of  fifty  points.  There  are  the  usual  rules 
about  fouls,  false  strokes,  etc.,  but  the  fundamental 
principle  consists  in  receiving  the  ball  in  the  scoop 
and  whacking  it  against  the  opposite  wall.  It  sounds 
very  simple,  but  the  players  show  a  marvellous  agility 
and  great  endurance,  the  play  being  so  rapid  that 
from  the  spectator's  point  of  view  it  is  keenly  enter- 
taining. 

Of  course  the  upper  classes  in  Madrid  play  the 
usual  tennis,  croquet  and  occasionally  polo,  but  the 
Spaniard  is  not  by  instinct  a  sportsman.  Rather  he 
is  a  gambler,  which  accounts  for  the  increasing  vogue 
for  horse  racing  in  JNIadrid.  The  course,  compared 
with  Longchamps  and  Epsom,  is  rather  primitive  and 
the  sport  to  be  had  is  as  yet  inferior  to  the  fashion 
and  beauty  to  be  seen.  Intermissions  are  intermi- 
nable— else  how  could  the  ladies  see  each  other's 
frocks,  or  the  gallants  manage  their  flirting?  On  the 
whole,  the  races  in  Spain  are  affairs  of  society  rather 
than  of  sport. 

Riding  is  very  seldom  indulged  in  by.  ladies,  and 


196  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

the  men  who  canter  up  and  down  the  Castellana  in 
the  evening  have  atrocious  seats  and  look  thoroughly 
incongruous  with  their  handsome  mounts.  There  is 
practically  no  country  life  throughout  Spain,  the  few 
families  who  own  out-of-town  houses  rarely  visit 
them,  and  still  more  rarely  entertain  there.  When  the 
upper  class  leaves  Madrid  it  is  for  Biarritz  or  San 
Sebastian  or  Pau — some  resort  where  they  may  sat- 
isfy the  Spaniard's  eternal  craving:  to  see  and  be 
seen.  This  explains  why  the  Madrileno  is  maladroit 
at  those  outdoor  sports  he  sometimes  likes  to  affect 
as  part  of  his  Anglo-mania,  but  which  he  never  really 
enjoys. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  adores  what  the  French  call 
the  '^'^vie  d'tnterieure."  Nothing  interests  him,  or  his 
senora,  more  than  their  day  at  home,  which  in  Spanish 
resolves  into  a  tertulia.  No  matter  what  time  of  day 
this  informal  reception  takes  place,  ladies  appear  in 
morning  dress — as  the  Anglo-Saxon  understands  the 
word — and  visits  are  paid  by  entire  families,  so  that 
sometimes  the  onslaught  is  rather  formidable.  Choco- 
late is  served,  about  the  consistency  of  oatmeal  por- 
ridge, but  deliciously  light  and  frothy  nevertheless. 
It  is  eaten  instead  of  drunk,  by  means  of  little  bits  of 
toast,  dipped  into  the  cup.  Sometimes  in  the  evening 
meringues  are  served,  but  always  the  refreshments  are 
of  the  simplest,  the  feast  being  one  of  chatter  and 
familiar  gossip  rather  than  of  stodgy  cakes  and 
salads. 

When  there  is  dancing,  no  sitting  out  or  staircase 
flirtations  are  allowed;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  there 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  197 

is  not  the  depressing  row  of  chaperones  round  the 
walls  nor  the  bored  young  men  blocking  the  doorways 
during  intermissions.  Everyone  gathers  in  little 
groups  and  circles,  the  men  keeping  the  stifling  rooms 
in  a  constant  haze  of  smoke,  and  a  wild  hubbub  of 
conversation  goes  on  until  the  next  dance.  The  for- 
eigner is  disappointed  in  Spanish  dancing.  Having 
in  his  mind  the  wonderful  grace  and  litheness  of  the 
professional  hailarina,  he  is  shocked  by  the  hop-skip- 
and-jump  waltzing  he  meets  with  in  drawing-rooms. 
The  fact  is  that  only  in  their  own  national  or  charac- 
teristic local  dances  are  the  Spanish  graceful;  when 
they  attempt  the  modern  steps  of  other  countries,  as 
when  they  attempt  the  clothes  and  sports  of  other 
countries,  they  become  ridiculous. 

But,  happily  for  the  young  people,  they  do  not 
know  it;  and  during  the  ungainly  waltz  they  make 
up  in  ardent  flirtation  for  the  loss  of  the  balconies, 
window  seats  and  other  corners  a  deux  beloved  by 
less  formally  trained  youth.  What  goes  on  in  the 
dance,  dueiias  wink  at.  After  all,  the  chief  business 
of  Spanish  life  is  to  marry  ofl*  the  children,  and  when 
the  latter  are  inclined  to  help  matters  along  so  much 
the  better. 

In  passing,  it  may  be  of  interest  to  add  that,  while 
the  New  Woman  is  an  unknown  quantity  in  Spain, 
the  Spanish  woman  is  the  only  one  who  retains  her 
maiden  name  after  marriage.  Thus  Senorita  Fer- 
nandez becomes  Senora  Fernandez  de  Blank,  and  her 
children  go  by  the  name  of  Blank  y  Fernandez.  Also, 
if  she  is  a  lady  of  rank,  her  husband  inmiediately 


198  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

assumes  her  title;  and  this  last  descends  through  the 
female  line,  if  there  are  no  sons.  Such  a  law  forms 
an  interesting  vagary  of  the  country  where  woman's 
position  on  the  whole  reflects  the  Oriental.  In  Toledo 
there  is  a  convent  for  the  education  of  penniless 
daughters  of  noblemen.  Each  of  the  young  ladies 
is  given  a  dowry  of  a  thousand  dollars,  and  is  eagerly 
sought  in  marriage  as  a  person  of  importance.  All 
this  in  accordance  with  the  Spanish  tradition  that 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  an  old  maid. 

Naturally,  in  a  land  thoroughly  orthodox  in  both 
religion  and  social  conventions,  divorce  is  tahu;  the 
solution  of  the  unhappy  marriage  being  intrigue — 
which  is  overlooked,  or,  at  the  worst,  separation — in 
which  case  the  woman  has  rather  a  hard  time  of  it. 
At  best,  she  is  completely  under  the  thumb  of  her 
husband,  and  would  lose  her  head  altogether  were  she 
suddenly  accorded  the  liberty  of  the  American  woman, 
for  example.  I  have  often  thought  what  a  treasure 
one  of  these  unaggressive  Espanolas  would  make  for 
the  brow-beaten  American  man;  who,  if  he  had  a 
fancy  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  his  ambitious 
sisters,  might  buy  a  wife  and  a  title,  and — ^by  pur- 
chase of  property  with  a  rental  of  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars— a  life  seat  in  the  senate,  all  at  the  same  time ! 

And  never,  never  again  would  he  be  seen  with  his 
hang-dog  efFacement,  shuffling  into  a  restaurant  as  a 
sort  of  ambulant  peg  for  the  wraps  of  a  procession 
of  ladies.  Once  a  real  Spaniard,  he  would  stalk  in 
first  at  cafes,  and  find  his  own  cronies,  leaving 
madame  to  find  hers  in  the  separate  "section  for 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  199 

senoras."  When  he  was  ready  to  depart,  she — no 
matter  what  her  fever  to  finish  the  gossip  of  the  mo- 
ment— would  depart  without  a  murmur.  Outrage- 
ous! cries  the  American,  who  pads  his  own  leading- 
strings  with  the  pretty  word  of  "chivalry." 

I  think  I  have  said  that  Spanish  ladies  do  not 
attend  restaurants,  except  those  of  the  larger  hotels; 
but  they  are  devoted  to  cafes,  where  they  eat  choco- 
late and  tostas  fritas,  or  drink  a  curious — and  singu- 
larly good — mixture  of  lemon  ice  and  beer,  while 
shredding  the  affairs  of  their  neighbours.  Owing  to 
the  segregation  of  the  masculine  and  feminine  con- 
tingents, the  ]Madrid  cafe  presents  a  quite  different 
picture  from  the  rendezvous  intime  of  the  Parisian, 
or  the  gemiitlicJi  coffee  house  of  Vienna.  There  is 
no  surreptitious  holding  of  hands  under  the  table,  no 
laying  of  heads  together  over  the  illustrated  papers, 
no  miniature  orchestra  playing  a  sensuous  waltz.  The 
amusement  of  the  Madrileno  in  his  favourite  cafe  is 
to  look  out  of  it  onto  the  street;  of  the  Madrilena, 
ditto — each  keeping  up  a  running  fire  of  chatter  the 
while. 

The  manners  of  both  ladies  and  gentlemen  are 
somewhat  startling  at  times.  Toothpicks  are  con- 
stantly in  evidence,  some  of  the  more  exclusive  carry- 
ing their  own  little  instruments  of  silver  or  gold,  and 
producing  them  from  pocket  or  handbag  whenever 
the  occasion  offers.  It  is  not  uncommon,  either,  for 
ladies  as  well  as  gentlemen  to  expectorate  in  public; 
in  cafes,  or  even  from  carriages  on  the  Castellana, 
one  sees  this  done  with  perfect  sang  froid.    On  the 


200  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

other  hand,  there  is  an  absolute  simplicity  and  free- 
dom from  affectation.  With  all  their  interest  in  the 
appearance  and  affairs  of  their  neighbours,  Spanish 
men  and  women  are  without  knowledge  of  the  word 
"snob."  So  thoroughly  grounded  in  that  uncon- 
scious assurance  newer  civilization  lacks,  they  would 
not  know  how  to  set  about  "impressing"  anyone. 
They  are  what  they  are,  and  there's  an  end  to  it. 

When  they  stare,  as  the  foreigner  complains  they 
do  constantly,  it  is  the  frankly  direct  stare  of  a  child. 
And  few  ladies  use  pince-nez — for  which  they  have 
the  excellent  word,  ''impertinentes"  Some  of  these 
Spanish  words  are  delightfully  descriptive:  there  is 
^' sahio-mucho"  for  the  little  donkeys  that  trot  ahead 
of  the  mules  in  harness,  and  in  their  careful  picking 
of  the  way  prove  their  title  of  "know-it-all."  And 
there  is  serreno  for  the  night  watchman,  who  prowls 
his  district  every  hour,  to  assure  the  inhabitants  that 
"it  is  three  o'clock  and  the  night  serene!" 

To  the  English  night-owl,  the  custom  of  leaving 
one's  latchkey  with  the  serreno  appeals  as  rather  pre- 
carious, in  several  ways.  But  Spaniards  are  notori- 
ously temperate;  also  discreet;  and,  as  Spanish  keys 
are  apt  to  weigh  a  pound  or  two,  it  is  the  easiest  thing 
for  the  sefior  when  he  reaches  his  own  door  to  clap 
his  hands  twice — and  the  serreno  comes  running.  It 
seems  a  quaint  custom  to  have  a  night  watchman  in  a 
city  like  Madrid,  where  life  goes  on  all  night,  and  the 
Puerta  del  Sol  is  as  full  and  as  noisy  at  half -past 
three  in  the  morning  as  at  the  same  hour  of  the  after- 
noon. 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  201 

All  the  best  amusements  begin  very  late,  follow- 
ing the  rule  of  the  nine-o'clock  dinner;  and  as  theatre 
tickets  are  purchased  in  sections — i.  e.,  for  each  sepa- 
rate act  or  piece — it  is  generally  arranged  so  that  the 
finest  part  of  a  performance  begins  at  half  after  ten, 
or  even  eleven  o'clock.  Of  course,  the  Teatro  Real, 
or  opera-house,  is  the  first  theatre  of  Madrid,  and  we 
have  already  spoken  of  the  sacrifices  endured  for  the 
privilege  of  owning  a  box  for  the  season. 

Ladies  of  society — and  some  who  are  not — delight 
to  receive  in  their  'palcos;  and  the  long  entr'actes  lend 
themselves  to  actual  visits,  instead  of  the  casual 
"looking  in"  of  friends.  Anyone,  by  paying  the 
nominal  entrance  fee,  can  enter  the  opera  house — or 
any  theatre — on  the  chance  of  finding  acquaintances 
in  the  boxes,  and  so  spend  an  hour  or  two  going  from 
one  group  to  another.  This  gives  the  house  the  look 
of  a  vast  reception,  which  it  is,  far  more  than  a  place 
where  people  come  to  hear  good  music. 

It  has  not,  however,  the  brilliancy  or  fascination 
of  the  INIetropolitan  audience  in  New  York,  nor  of 
Covent  Garden.  The  Teatro  Real  is  a  mediocre  build- 
ing, in  the  first  place;  and  neither  the  toilettes  and 
jewels  of  the  women  nor  the  distinction  of  the  men 
can  compare  with  the  splendid  ensemble  of  an  Eng- 
lish or  American  opera  audience.  While  the  music, 
after  Vienna,  is  execrable,  and  merits  the  indiffer- 
ence the  3Iadrilejios  show  it.  About  the  most  inter- 
esting episode  of  the  evening  comes  after  the  per- 
formance is  over — when,  on  the  pretext  of  waiting 
for  carriages,  society  lingers  in  the  entrance  hall,  chat- 


202  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

ting,  laughing,  engaged  in  more  or  less  mild  flirtation 
— for  the  better  part  of  an  hour.  Here  one  sees  the 
Madrilena  at  her  best;  eyes  flashing,  jewels  sparkling, 
fan  swaying  back  and  forth  to  show  or  again  to  con- 
ceal her  brave  "best  gown";  above  all,  smiling  her 
slow  Eastern  woman's  smile  with  a  grace  that  makes 
one  echo  her  adorers'  exclamation:  "At  your  feet, 
senora !" 

She  is  seen  to  less  advantage  at  the  ordinary 
theatre,  which  is  usually  in  itself  a  dingy  afl'air,  and 
where  evening  dress  is  conspicuous  by  its  absence. 
Even  the  orchestra  is  apt  to  come  garbed  in  faded 
shades  of  the  popular  green  or  brown,  and  always 
with  hats  on — until  the  curtain  rises. 

We  have  spoken  already  of  the  prevalence  of  the 
one-act  play  in  Spanish  theatres.  The  people  pay  an 
average  charge  of  two  reales — ten  cents — for  each 
small  piece,  and  the  audience  changes  several  times 
during  an  evening.  At  the  better  theatres,  orchestra 
seats  are  seventy-five  cents — a  price  to  be  paid  only  by 
the  very  wealthy! — and  the  plays  are  generally  un- 
adulterated melodrama.  The  always  capricious  audi- 
ence cheers  or  hisses  in  true  old  melodramatic  fash- 
ion, so  that  at  the  most  touching  moment  of  a  piece 
one  cannot  hear  a  word  of  it,  for  the  piercing  Bravos 
— or  again  catch  the  drift  of  the  popular  displeasure 
which  shows  itself  in  groans  and  whistling.  The  com- 
plete naivete  of  the  Spanish  character  is  nowhere  bet- 
ter displayed  than  at  the  theatre ;  but  I  think  it  must 
keep  the  actors  in  a  constant  fever  of  suspense. 

The  latter  are  rather  primitive  in  method  and  ap- 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  203 

pearance  according  to  modern  notions,  but  play  their 
particular  genre  with  no  small  cleverness.  They  use 
little  or  no  make-up,  so  that  the  effect  at  first  is  rather 
ghastly ;  however,  one  gets  used  to  it,  and  even  comes 
to  prefer  it  to  the  over-rouged  cheeks  and  exagger- 
ated eyes  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  artist.  It  is  interest- 
ing, too,  that,  even  in  the  world  of  make-believe,  the 
Spaniard  is  as  little  make-believe  as  possible.  There 
is  nothing  artificial  in  his  composition,  and  even  when 
professionally  "pretending"  he  pretends  along  the 
line  of  his  own  strong  loves  and  hates,  with  no  at- 
tempt at  subtilizing,  either. 

One  is  apt  to  think  there  is  no  subtlety  at  all  in 
this  people — until  one  sees  its  national  dancers.  Af- 
ter the  banal  "Boston"  and  one-step  of  the  ultra- 
moderns,  the  old  ever-beloved  Spanish  dances  come  as 
a  revelation;  while  the  professional  hailarina  herself 
is  as  far  removed  from  her  kind  in  other  lands  as 
poetry  from  doggerel. 

Tall,  swayingly  slender,  delicately  sensuous  in 
every  move,  she  glides  into  vision  in  her  ankle-long 
full  skirts,  like  a  flower  rising  from  its  calyx.  There 
is  about  her  none  of  the  self -consciousness  of  the 
familiar  lady  of  tarletans  and  tights;  but  a  little  air 
of  dignity  on  guard  that  is  very  alluring.  She  does 
not  smirk,  she  does  not  pirouette;  she  sways,  and 
bends,  and  rises  to  stamp  her  foot  in  the  typical 
bozneOj  with  a  litheness  and  grace  indescribable.  And 
her  castanets!  Long  before  she  actually  apj^ears, 
you  hear  their  quick  toc-toc:  first  a  low  murmur,  then 
louder  and  ever  louder,  till  with  her  proud  entrance 


204  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

they  beat  a  tempestuous  allegro — only  to  grow  fainter 
and  fainter  and  die  away  again  with  the  slow  meas- 
ures of  the  dance. 

Her  long  princess  frock  sheathes  the  slim  figure 
closely,  to  swell  out,  however,  at  the  ankles  in  a  swirl 
of  foamy  flounces.  Brilliant  with  sequins  or  the 
multi-coloured  broidery  of  the  manton,  the  costume 
curls  about  her  in  a  gorgeous  haze  of  orange,  azure, 
mauve,  and  scarlet  while  she  dances.  Her  fine  long 
feet  are  arched  and  curved  into  a  thousand  diff*erent 
poses;  her  body  the  mere  casing  for  a  spirit  of  flame 
and  mystery;  her  face  the  shadow  curtain  of  infinite 
expression,  infinite  light. 

And  while  her  castanets  are  sounding  every  shade 
of  rhythm  and  seduction,  and  her  white  long  arms 
are  swaying  to  and  fro — in  the  ancient  Jota,  or  the 
Ole  AndaluZj  or  perhaps  in  the  Sevillana,  or  the 
Malaguena — the  dance  of  her  particular  city;  while 
men's  throats  grow  hoarse  with  shouting  hravos  and 
women's  eyes  dim  with  staring  at  such  grace,  there 
lives  before  one  not  La  Goya,  La  Argentina,  Pastora 
Imperia — not  the  idol  favourite  of  the  hour,  but  some- 
thing more  wonderful  and  less  substantial :  the  ghost 
of  old  Spain.  It  flits  before  one  there,  in  its  proud 
glory;  its  beauty,  its  passion,  and  its  power;  baring 
the  soul  of  half  of  it — the  woman  soul,  that  is. 

And  when  one  looks  beyond  her  fire  and  lovelj^ 
dignity,  over  her  shoulder  peers  the  cool,  dark  face  of 
a  torero. 


Ill 

ONE    OF    HIS    "BIG    SCENES" 

Twenty-eight  years  ago  Alfonso  XII  died,  leav- 
ing a  consort  whom  the  Spanish  people  regarded  with 
suspicion,  if  not  with  actual  dislike.  She  was  INIaria 
Christina  of  Austria,  the  second  wife  of  the  king; 
and  six  months  after  his  death  htx  son,  Alfonso  XIII, 
was  born. 

Sullenly  Spain  submitted  to  the  long  regency  of 
a  "foreigner";  and  Maria  Christina  set  about  the 
desperate  business  of  saving  her  son  to  manhood. 
From  the  first  he  was  an  ailing,  sickly  child,  and  his 
mother  had  to  fight  for  him  in  health  as  well  as  in 
political  position  every  inch  of  the  way.  She  was 
tireless,  dauntless,  throughout  the  struggle.  Tim.e 
after  time  the  little  king's  life  was  despaired  of;  she 
never  gave  up. 

Every  morning  during  his  childliood  the  boy  was 
driven  to  the  bracing  park  of  La  Gran j  a,  where  he 
ate  his  lunch  and  stayed  all  day,  only  coming  back  to 
JNIadrid  to  sleep.  In  this  and  a  hundred  other  ways  it 
was  as  though  hi^.  mother,  with  her  steel  courage, 
literally  forbade  him  to  die.  And  to-day,  for  her 
reward,  she  has  not  only  a  king  whom  the  entire 

205 


206  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

world  admires  with  enthusiasm,  but  a  son  whose  devo- 
tion to  herself  amounts  almost  to  a  passion. 

I  like  to  remember  my  first  glimpse  of  the  king — 
it  was  so  characteristic  of  his  personal  simplicity  in 
the  midst  of  a  court  renowned  for  its  rigid  ceremonial. 
I  was  one  of  the  crowd  that  lined  the  Palace  galleries 
on  a  Sunday  before  Public  Chapel;  we  were  herded 
between  rows  of  halberdiers,  very  stiif  and  hushed, 
waiting  for  the  splendid  procession  soon  to  come. 

Suddenly  the  cry  rose :  ''El  Hey!"  And,  attended 
only  by  two  gentlemen  and  a  grey-haired  lady  in 
black,  the  king  came  down  the  corridor.  He  was  in 
striking  blue  uniform,  and  wore  the  collar  of  the 
Golden  Fleece,  but  what  occurred  to  one  first  was  his 
buoyant  look  of  youth  and  his  smile — as  the  Span- 
iards say,  "very,  very  simpatico."  He  saluted  to  the 
right  and  left,  skimming  the  faces  of  the  crowd  with 
that  alertness  that  makes  every  peasant  sure  to  the 
end  of  his  days  that  the  king  certainly  saw  him. 
Then  he  stooped  while  one  of  his  gentlemen  held 
open  a  little  door  much  too  low  for  him,  and  slipped 
quickly  through  to  the  other  side.  "Exactly,"  mur- 
mured an  old  woman  disappointedly,  "like  anyone 
else." 

That  is  a  large  part  of  the  greatness  of  this  king, 
as  it  was  of  that  of  Edward  VII  of  England :  he  is 
exactly  like  anyone  else.  And,  like  anyone  else,  he 
must  submit  to  a  routine  and  certain  obligatory  duties 
which  are  utterly  irksome  to  him.  When  he  came 
back  from  Chapel  later,  in  the  tedious  procession,  his 
face  was  quite  pale  and  he  looked  tired  out.     With 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  207 

all  his  mother's  indefatigable  care  and  training,  his 
health  at  best  is  very  irregular ;  and  I  remember  hear- 
ing one  of  his  guards  say  that  he  would  have  died 
long  ago  if  he  could  have  taken  time  for  it! 

But  to  go  back  to  Royal  Chapel:  on  the  days 
-when  this  is  public,  anyone,  beginning  with  the  rag- 
gedest  peasant,  may  walk  into  the  Palace  and  up- 
stairs to  the  galleries,  as  though  he  were  a  prince  of 
the  blood.  True,  if  he  arrives  early  he  must  stand  in 
line,  to  be  moved  along  as  the  guards  shall  direct. 
But  if  he  comes,  as  I  did,  just  before  the  hour,  he 
walks  upstairs  and  along  the  thick-carpeted  corri- 
dors, to  take  his  place  where  he  chooses.  Of  course 
one  is  literally  barricaded  by  halberdiers — two  of 
them  to  every  three  persons,  as  a  rule — and  a  very 
imposing  line  they  make  in  their  scarlet  coats,  white 
knee  breeches  and  black  gaiters,  their  halberds  glit- 
tering round  the  four  sides  of  the  galleries. 

These  are  hung,  on  one  or  two  gala  Sundays  a 
year,  with  marvellous  old  tapestries,  so  that  not  an 
inch  of  stone  wall  can  be  seen.  It  makes  a  beautiful 
background  for  the  gold  lace  and  rich  uniforms  of  the 
grandees  as  they  pass  through  on  their  way  to  the 
Assembly  Chamber.  For  half  an  hour  before  the 
procession  forms,  these  gorgeous  personages  are  ar- 
riving, many  of  them  in  the  handsome  court  costume 
of  black,  finely  worked  in  gold  embroidery,  and  with 
the  picturesque  lace  ruff.  Others  wear  various  and 
splendid  uniforms,  with — as  many  as  have  them — 
ribbons  of  special  orders,  and,  of  course,  every  medal 
they  can  produce,  strung  across  their  chests.     Some 


208  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

of  the  older  men  are  particularly  distinguished,  while 
all  the  officers  stalk  in,  in  the  grand  manner,  shoul- 
ders square,  swords  clanking. 

An  especially  interesting  group  is  the  Estada 
Mayor — six  grandees  out  of  the  seven  hundred  odd 
who  wear  a  gold  key  over  their  right  hip,  as  a  sign 
that  they  may  enter  the  palace  and  confer  with  the 
sovereign  at  any  time.  These  men  have  the  title  of 
Marque  in  addition  to  any  others  they  may  have  in- 
herited, and  are  supposed  to  spend  one  week  each  in 
the  palace  during  the  year.  They  are  tall,  splendid- 
looking  creatures,  in  bright  red  coats,  white  trous- 
ers with  black  boots,  and  helmets  with  waving  white 
feathers.  And  on  Public  Chapel  days  they  enter 
last  into  the  Assembly  Chamber,  so  that  their  appear- 
ance is  the  signal  that  the  procession  is  about  to  start. 
When  they  have  gone  in,  the  chief  of  the  hal- 
berdiers cries :  "The  King !  Do  me  the  favour  to  un- 
cover your  heads!"  And  the  favour  is  done,  while 
detectives  all  about  are  taking  a  final  sharp  survey 
of  the  closely  guarded  crowd.  Then  two  plainly 
dressed  persons,  known  by  the  modest  title  of  handero 
(sweeper)  hurry  up  and  down  the  line  to  make  sure 
no  presumptuous  subject  has  his  feet  on  the  royal 
carpet;  and  finally  two  ancient  major  domos  in  scar- 
let breeches  and  much  gold  lace  solemnly  march  sev- 
eral yards  ahead  of  the  procession,  peering  search- 
ingly  from  right  to  left.  For,  as  everyone  knows, 
the  King  of  Spain's  life  is  in  momentary  danger 
from  anarchists,  and  no  amount  of  precaution  ever 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  209 

really  satisfies  the  inquietude  of  his  people  when  he 
is  in  public. 

At  last  the  dignified  line  of  grandees  appears. 
Some  of  them  we  recognize  as  they  go  by :  The  Duke 
of  Medina  y  Coeli,  with  his  twenty-eight  titles,  the 
most  of  any  noble  in  Spain;  the  Duke  of  Alba,  who 
holds  the  oldest  title,  and  the  head  of  whose  family 
always  registers  a  formal  protest  on  the  accession  of 
each  king — with  the  insinuation,  of  course,  that  by 
right  of  birth  the  Alba  should  reign.  Further  on 
come  the  three  royal  princes,  Don  Carlos,  Don  Fer- 
nando, and  Don  Alphonso — the  King's  cousin.  And 
finally,  between  his  two  gentilhomhres,  the  King. 

It  is  not  the  boyish  young  man  now,  slipping 
inconspicuously  from  one  room  to  another,  but  the 
sovereign,  erect  and  on  duty,  facing  his  rows  of 
scrutinizing  subjects  steadily  and  with  a  quiet  confi- 
dence. I  should  like  more  than  most  things  to  have  a 
true  picture  of  him  at  that  moment — walking  unself- 
consciously in  the  midst  of  his  haughty  court.  On 
all  sides  of  him  pomp  and  stateliness:  the  lovely 
old  tapestries,  the  rich  shrines  at  every  corner  of  the 
galleries,  the  brilliant  uniforms  of  the  tall  halberdiers, 
the  dazzling  garb  of  the  grandees,  and  the  flashing 
jewels  of  their  ladies :  among  all  this  magnificence  the 
King  walked  with  truest  dignity,  yet  utterly  sans 
fagon.  He  had  even,  behind  the  gravity  due  the 
occasion,  the  hint  of  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  as  though  to 
say,  "It's  absurd,  isn't  it,  that  all  this  is  for  me?  That 
a  plain  man  who  likes  to  ride,  and  to  shoot,  and  to 
prowl  round  in  the  forest  with  his  dogs  should  be  the 


210  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

centre  of  this  procession  as  King  of  Spain!    Really, 
it's  almost  a  joke." 

I'm  sure  he  actually  was  thinking  that,  for  he  has 
a  delightful  sense  of  humour,  besides  being  wholly 
natural,  and  he  and  the  Queen  are  noted  for  their 
simplicity  and  their  readiness  to  be  considered  as 
ordinary  humans.  The  King,  in  walking  to  and  from 
Chapel,  passes  close  enough  to  the  people  for  any  one 
of  them  to  reach  out  and  touch  him,  and  his  alert  eyes 
seem  to  convey,  with  his  frank  smile,  individual  greet- 
ing to  each  person  present.  No  one  can  look  even 
once  into  that  ugly,  animated  face  without  feeling 
both  the  magnetism  and  the  tremendous  courage  with 
which  Alfonso  XIII  rules  Spain. 

On  this  morning  that  I  saw  him  the  Queen  was 
not  present ;  but  she  usually  walks  with  him  to  Chapel, 
and  is  extravagantly  admired  by  the  people,  who  find 
her  blond  beauty  "hermosisima"  (the  most  lovely) 
and  her  French  gowns  the  last  word  of  elegance. 
Both  she  and  the  Queen-mother  reached  the  Chapel 
by  an  inner  entrance  on  the  day  of  which  I  speak; 
so  that  the  Infantas  Isabel  and  Maria  Luisa  with  their 
ladies  followed  the  King. 

Dona  Isabel,  with  her  strong,  humorous  face,  and 
white  hair,  is  always  an  interesting  figure.  She  is 
constantly  seen  at  the  bullfight,  and  driving  through 
the  Puerta  del  Sol  or  in  the  Castellana;  and  is  gen- 
erally wearing  the  mantilla.  This  morning  she  wore 
a  very  beautiful  white  one,  held  by  magnificent  dia- 
mond clasps,  and  falling  over  a  brocade  dress  of  great 
richness.     Her  train,  carried  by  a  Marques  of  the 


2  t.  o 

o  c  2 

<  ■E'-^'- 
CO        4=  c 

r..    WH  2 


:  6  c 


:-2K 


«U 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  211 

household,  was  of  white  satin  embroidered  in  iris,  and 
clusters  of  the  flower  were  scattered  over  the  stuff 
itself. 

The  Infanta  Maria  Luisa,  who  is  considered  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  all  princesses,  was  also  in 
white  satin  and  a  white  mantilla,  and  looked  exceed- 
ingly Spanish  and  attractive.  She  had  wonderful 
jewels,  a  string  of  immense  pearls  being  among  the 
most  prominent;  and  a  great  emerald  cabochon  that 
hung  from  a  slender  chain.  Each  of  the  Infantas  had 
her  lady-in-waiting,  also  in  court  trains  and  the  man- 
tilla; and  one  could  not  help  reflecting  how  much 
more  picturesque  and  becoming  this  latter  is  than  the 
stiff  three  feathers  prescribed  by  the  English  tradi- 
tion. On  the  other  hand,  it  is  true  that  only  Spanish 
ladies  know  how  to  wear  the  gracious  folds  of  lace 
which  on  women  of  other  nations  appear  incongruous 
and  even  awkward. 

After  the  Infantas  and  their  ladies  came  the 
diplomats  and  various  foreign  ambassadors,  all  in 
full  regalia ;  and  finally  the  six  officers  of  the  Estada 
Mayor  brought  up  the  rear.  I  have  forgotten  to 
mention  the  band  of  the  Palace  Guards  which  pre- 
ceded the  entire  procession,  and  played  the  royal 
march  all  this  while.  I  think  there  can  be  no  music 
at  once  so  grave  and  so  inspiring  as  this  is ;  if  it  thrills 
the  imagination  of  the  foreigner,  what  must  it  mean 
to  the  Spaniard  with  his  memories? 

When  the  court  had  passed  into  the  Chapel,  the 
crowd  was  at  liberty  to  break  ranks  and  walk  about 
the  galleries.    During  this  intermission,  the  detectives 


212  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

were  again  in  evidence;  scouring  the  place  for  any 
signs  of  violence.  Since  the  King  was  fired  at,  on  the 
day  of  the  swearing-in  of  the  recruits  (April  13, 
1913),  efforts  to  protect  his  life  have  been  redoubled. 
This  was  the  third  attack  since  his  marriage,  includ- 
ing the  terrible  episode  of  his  wedding-day  itself. 

On  that  occasion,  when  the  bomb  that  was  thrown 
at  him,  as  he  was  leaving  the  church  with  the  Queen, 
killed  thirty-four  people  besides  the  horses  of  the 
royal  coach,  and  caused  the  Queen's  wedding-dress  to 
be  spattered  with  blood,  the  poor  bride  in  her  terror 
was  on  the  point  of  collapsing.  Through  the  babel 
of  screams  and  shouting,  the  King  spoke  to  her  dis- 
tinctly: "The  Queen  of  Spain  never  faints!"  said 
he.  And  he  placed  her  in  another  carriage,  and  drove 
off,  coolly,  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 

Again,  at  the  time  of  the  attack  last  April,  the 
King  was  the  first  to  see  the  man  rushing  towards 
him,  pistol  uplifted.  Instantly  he  started  forward, 
on  his  horse,  to  ride  down  the  assassin;  and  when  the 
shots  rang  out,  and  people  realized  what  was  happen- 
ing, the  King  was  the  first  to  reach  his  would-be 
murderer,  and  to  protect  him  from  the  mob.  Then 
the  crowd  forgot  the  criminal,  and  went  mad  over 
the  sovereign.  Spaniards  themselves  say  that  never 
has  there  been  such  a  demonstration  for  any  monarch 
in  the  history  of  Madrid.  One  can  imagine  the  ting- 
ling pride  of  those  recruits  who,  when  the  confusion 
was  past,  had  still  to  go  through  the  impressive  cere- 
mony of  kissing  the  cross  made  by  their  sword  against 
the  flag:  what  it  must  have  meant  to  swear  allegiance 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  213 

to  such  a  man  at  such  a  moment.  As  I  heard  a  young 
girl  say,  at  the  time:  "There  is  just  one  adjective 
that  describes  him:  he's  7'oyalj  through  and  through." 

He  looked  more  than  ever  royal  when,  coming 
back  from  Chapel,  he  knelt  head  bared  before  the 
shrine  at  our  end  of  the  gallery.  All  the  procession 
now  carried  lighted  candles,  and  their  number  was  in- 
creased by  the  bishop  and  richly  clad  priests  who  had 
conducted  service.  At  each  of  the  four  shrines  they 
halted,  while  prayers  were  sung;  and  one  was  struck 
with  the  opportunity  this  offered  for  an  attack  upon 
the  King.  As  he  knelt  there,  head  lowered  between 
the  two  lines  of  people,  he  made  an  excellent  mark 
for  the  anarchist's  pistol ;  but,  as  usual,  seemed  utterly 
unconscious  of  his  danger. 

The  court,  on  its  knees,  looked  very  bored;  and 
made  no  pretence  at  devoutness  while  the  beautiful 
Aves  were  being  sung.  But  the  King  played  his 
part  to  the  end,  with  a  dignity  rather  touching  in  such 
a  frankly  boyish  man;  though,  when  the  ceremony 
was  over,  he  heaved  a  very  natural  sigh  of  relief  as  he 
rose  to  his  feet  again. 

Back  stalked  the  "sweepers,"  the  old  major-domos, 
the  haughty  grandees;  back  came  Don  Carlos,  Don 
Fernando,  Don  Alfonso.  And  then,  for  the  fourth 
time  that  morning  so  near  us,  the  King;  smiling, 
with  his  first  finger  on  his  helmet,  in  the  familiar 
gesture.  The  Infantas  followed  him,  then  the  diplo- 
mats; finally  the  six  nobles  of  Estada  Mayor.  The 
chief  of  the  halberdiers  pounded  on  the  floor  with  his 
halberd;  the  guards  broke  ranks;  the  people  surged 


214  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

out  of  line  and  towards  the  stairs — and  Royal  Chapel 
was  ended. 

Yet  not  quite,  for  me.  Thanks  to  a  friend  in  the 
Estada  Mayor,  I  had  still  to  see  one  of  the  finest 
pictures  of  the  morning :  the  exit  from  the  palace,  of 
the  famous  Palace  Guards.  Six  abreast  they  came, 
down  the  grand  staircase  of  the  beautiful  inner  court, 
two  hundred  strong  as  they  filed  out  to  their  solemn 
bugle  and  drum.  All  of  them  men  between  six  and 
seven  feet,  in  their  brilliant  red  and  black  and  white 
uniform,  I  shall  never  forget  the  sight  they  made, 
filling  the  splendid  royal  stairs.  They  seemed  the 
living  incarnation  of  the  old  Spanish  spirit ;  the  spirit 
of  Isabella's  time,  but  none  the  less  of  that  heroic 
woman  of  today  who,  though  not  of  Spanish  blood 
herself,  has  given  to  Spain  a  king  to  glory  in  and 
revere. 


IV 

HIS    FOIBLES    AND    FINENESSES 

"The  salient  trait  of  the  Spanish  character,"  says 
Taine,  "is  a  lack  of  the  sense  of  the  practical."  For 
want  of  it,  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  themselves — the 
greatest  rulers  Spain  ever  had — drove  the  Moors  and 
the  Jews  out  of  the  country;  and  laid  the  corner- 
stone of  its  ruin.  Far  from  realizing  they  were  ex- 
pelling by  the  hundred  thousand  their  most  wealthy 
and  intelligent  subjects,  the  Catholic  sovereigns  saw 
only  the  immediate  religious  triumph;  the  immediate 
financial  gain  of  confiscating  the  estates  of  the  in- 
fidels, and  refusing  to  harbour  them  within  their 
realm. 

Time  after  time,  the  blind  arrogance  of  the 
Spaniard  as  champion  of  orthodoxy  throughout  the 
world,  has  rebounded  against  him  in  blows  from 
which  he  will  never  recover.  The  Inquisition  in  it- 
self established  an  hereditary  fear  of  personal  think- 
ing that  remains  the  stumbling-block  in  the  way  of 
Spanish  progress  to  this  day.  Too,  the  natural 
indolence  of  the  people  inclines  them  to  accept  with- 
out question  the  statements  and  standards  handed 
down  from  their  directors  in  Church  or  State. 

215 


216  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

Some  of  these  are  so  absurd  as  to  call  for  pity 
rather  than  exasperation  on  the  part  of  outsiders. 
For  example,  the  conviction  of  even  educated 
Spaniards  with  regard  to  the  recent  war  with  the 
United  States  is  that  the  latter  won  because  they 
sent  out  every  man  they  had;  while  Spain  was  too 
indifferent  to  the  petty  issues  involved  to  go  to  the 
expense  of  mustering  troops !  Half  the  nation  has  no 
idea  what  those  issues  were,  nor  of  the  outcome  of  the 
various  battles  fought  over  them;  indeed,  so  dis- 
torted were  the  accounts  of  the  newspapers  and  the 
governmental  reports  that  Admiral  Cervera  was  wel- 
comed home  to  Spain  with  as  much  enthusiasm,  if 
not  as  much  ceremony,  as  was  Admiral  Dewey  to 
America ! 

The  few  insignificant  changes  in  the  map,  result- 
ing from  that  war,  the  Spaniard  tells  you  seriously, 
came  from  foul  play  on  the  part  of  ''los  Yankees/' 
That  the  stubborn  ignorance  and  meagre  resources  of 
his  own  countrymen  had  anything  to  do  with  it  he 
would  scout  with  utter  scorn.  And  this,  not  from  a 
real  and  intense  spirit  of  patriotism,  but  because  he 
is  forever  looking  back  over  his  shoulder  at  the 
glories  of  the  past;  until  they  are  actually  in  his 
mind  the  facts  of  the  present. 

There  is  little  intelligent  patriotism  throughout 
Spain,  the  local  partisan  spirit  of  old  feudalism  taking 
its  place.  Thus  Castilians  look  down  on  Andalucians ; 
Andalucians  show  a  bland  pity  for  Aragonese; 
Catalonians  hate  and  are  hated  by  every  other  tribe 
in  the  country;  while  the  Basques  coolly  continue  to 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  217 

this  day  to  declare  that  they  are  not  Spaniards,  but  a 
race  unto  themselves. 

The  extraordinary  oath  with  which  they  accept 
each  king,  on  his  accession,  is  luminous:  "We  who  are 
as  good  as  you,  and  who  are  more  powerful  than  j'^ou, 
elect  you  king,  that  you  may  protect  our  rights  and 
liberties."  It  scarcely  expresses  a  loyalty  with  which 
to  cement  provinces  into  a  united  kingdom!  But  it 
must  be  remembered  that  the  monarchs  of  the  past 
have  made  a  scare-crow  of  loyalty,  with  their  draining 
wars  for  personal  aggrandizement,  and  the  terrible 
persecutions  of  their  religious  bigotry.  The  people 
themselves  are  far  from  being  to  blame  for  their  lack 
of  patriotism,  or  the  mediaeval  superstition  which 
with  them  takes  the  place  of  intelligent  faith. 

Catholics  of  other  countries  are  revolted  by  what 
they  see  in  their  churches  in  Spain.  The  shrine  of  one 
famous  Virgin  is  hung  with  wax  models  of  arms  and 
legs,  purchased  by  devotees  praying  relief  from  suf- 
fering in  these  members.  Childless  women  have 
added  to  the  collection  small  wax  dolls ;  also  braids  of 
their  own  hair,  sacrificed  to  hang  in  the  gruesome  row 
beside  the  altar.  Looking  at  these  things,  hearing  the 
fantastic  stories  told  (and  firmly  believed)  about 
them,  one  can  with  difficulty  realize  that  one  is  in  a 
Christian  country  of  the  twentieth  century. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  respect  shown  re- 
ligion, and  the  mysteries  of  life  and  death,  which  is 
impressive  in  this  callous  age  of  materialism.  Span- 
ish women  invariably  cross  themselves  when  passing 
a  church — whether  on  foot  or  in  a  tram  or  carriage; 


218  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

and  every  man,  grandee  or  peasant,  uncovers  while  a 
funeral  procession  goes  by.  I  have  noticed  this  es- 
pecially on  days  of  the  big  bull-fights,  when  the  trams 
are  packed  to  the  doors;  not  a  man,  whatever  his 
excitement  over  the  approaching  corrida,  or  his  mo- 
mentary interest  in  his  neighbour,  omits  the  instinc- 
tive gesture  of  respect  when  a  hearse  passes. 

Which,  alas,  it  does  very  often  in  Madrid; 
pathetically  often,  bearing  the  small  casket  of  a  child. 
It  is  said  that  a  Spaniard,  once  grown  to  maturity, 
lives  forever;  but  the  mothers  consider  themselves 
fortunate  if  they  save  only  half  of  their  many  chil- 
dren to  manhood  or  womanhood.  This  is  so  literally 
true  that  one  woman  who  had  had  sixteen  said  to 
me  quite  triumphantly,  "and  eight  are  alive!  And 
my  sister,  who  had  fourteen,  now  has  seven." 

One  has  not  to  search  far  for  the  cause  of  this 
terrible  mortality.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  a  case  of 
inbreeding;  no  new  blood  having  come  into  the  coun- 
try since  the  Jews  and  Moors  left  it.  In  the  second, 
the  simplest  laws  of  personal  or  public  hygiene  are 
unheard-of.  Even  among  the  lower  middle  class,  for 
a  mother  to  nurse  her  child  is  a  disgrace  not  to  be  en- 
dured; and  the  peasant  women  to  whom  this  duty  is 
entrusted  are  appallingly  ignorant,  and  often  of 
filthy  personal  habits.  From  its  birth,  a  baby  is  given 
everything  it  cries  for — or  is  supposed  to  cry  for; 
including  cheese,  pieces  of  meat  with  rice,  oranges, 
fried  potatoes,  and  sweetmeats  of  every  description. 

This  applies  not  only  to  the  poorer  classes  but  to 
people  of  supposed  education   and  enlightenment. 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  219 

When  the  child  is  two  or  three  years  old,  it  comes 
to  the  table  with  the  family;  though  the  hours  of 
Spanish  meals  are  injudicious  even  for  grown  per- 
sons. The  early  cup  of  chocolate  is  had  generally 
about  ten  or  eleven;  luncheon  is  at  half  after  one, 
dinner  between  half  after  eight  and  nine.  When 
this  is  over,  the  parents  take  the  children  to  walk  in 
the  streets,  or  to  the  stifling  air  and  lurid  entertain- 
ment of  the  cinema.  They  all  go  to  bed  about  mid- 
night, or  later;  and  the  parents  cannot  understand 
why,  under  such  a  regime,  the  children  should  have 
the  nerves  and  waxen  whiteness  of  little  old  men  and 
women.  Until  I  went  to  Spain,  I  had  always  con- 
sidered the  French  child  the  most  ill-treated  in  the 
world;  but  I  now  look  upon  his  upbringing  as  posi- 
tively model,  compared  with  the  ignorance  and  hy- 
gienic outrage  visited  upon  the  poor  little  espaiiol. 

Yet  no  people  love  their  children  more  passion- 
ately, or  sacrifice  for  them  more  heroically,  than  do 
the  Spaniards.  It  is  simply  that  in  the  laws  of 
health,  as  in  everything,  their  conception  is  that  of 
by-gone  centuries.  In  railway  carriages,  trams,  res- 
taurants and  cafes  they  sit  through  the  hottest 
months  of  summer  with  every  door  and  window  tight 
shut.  More  than  once  on  the  train,  I  have  been 
obliged  to  stand  in  the  corridor  all  day,  because  my 
five  carriage-companions  insisted  on  sealing  them- 
selves for  ten  hours  or  more  within  an  airless  com- 
partment eight  feet  square.  Even  in  their  own 
carriages  on  the  Castellana,  the  JNIadrilenos  drive  up 


220  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

and  down  in  the  months  of  July  and  August  with 
the  windows  entirely  closed. 

One  does  not  wonder  at  their  being  a  pale  and 
listless  race,  attacked  by  all  manner  of  disease. 

It  must  be  remembered  throughout  this  discus- 
sion that  we  are  dealing  with  the  general  mass  of  the 
people ;  though  with  the  mass  drawn  from  all  classes. 
There  is  in  Madrid  the  same  ultra-smart  set  (aug- 
mented largely  by  wealthy  South  Americans),  the 
same  set  of  litterateurs  and  artists,  the  same  set  of 
charming  and  distinguished  cosmopolitans,  that  one 
finds  in  every  big  city.  But,  in  the  Spanish  capital, 
these  shining  exceptions  are  so  far  in  the  minority  as 
to  have  very  limited  power  to  leaven  the  mental 
stodginess  of  society  as  a  whole. 

The  King  and  Queen,  by  their  open  fondness  for 
foreigners,  and  (quite  naturally)  for  the  English  in 
particular,  have  set  the  fashion  for  the  Anglo-mania 
that  rules  a  certain  portion  of  the  aristocracy.  As  in 
Paris,  a  number  of  English  words  are  currently  used, 
but  with  a  pronunciation  apt  to  make  the  polite 
Anglo-Saxon's  lip  twitch  at  times.  The  "Boy 
Scoots,"  for  example,  are  a  favourite  topic  of  con- 
versation in  progressive  drawing-rooms;  while  the 
young  bloods  are  wont  to  declare  themselves,  eagerly, 
keen  for  good  "spor"  and  "the  unt."  In  the  Eng- 
lish Tea  Rooms — always  crowded  with  Spaniards — 
I  have  even  been  gravely  corrected  for  my  pronun- 
ciation of  "scones."  "The  senora  means  thconais" 
says  the  little  waiter,  in  gentle  Castilian. 

Many     Madrilenos     affect     English     tailoring, 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  221 

though  the  results  are  a  bit  starthng  as  a  rule.  Brown 
and  green,  in  their  most  emphatic  shades,  vie  with  one 
another  for  popularity;  and  checks  or  stripes  seen  on 
a  Spanish  Brummel  are  checks  or  stripes — no  in- 
decision on  the  part  of  the  pattern.  Women,  of 
course,  lean  to  Paris  for  their  fashions;  but  Paris  is 
too  subtle  for  them,  and  they  copy  her  creations  in 
colours  frankly  strident.  Orange  and  cerise,  bright 
blue  and  royal  purple  share  the  senora's  favour; 
while,  to  be  really  an  elegante,  her  hair  must  be  tinted 
yellow,  her  face  a  somewhat  ghastly  white. 

An  interesting  variation  of  conventional  feminine 
standards  is  this  tendency  of  the  chic  Madrilena  to 
appear  like  a  French  cocotte ;  while  the  women  of  the 
demi-monde  themselves  are  demurely  garbed  in  black, 
without  make-up,  without  pretension  of  any  sort. 
But  all  women,  to  be  desirable,  must  be  fat.  Not 
merely  plump,  as  Anglo-Saxons  understand  the  word, 
but  distinctly  on  the  ample  side  of  embonpoint.  The 
only  obesity  cures  in  Spain  are  for  men;  women,  in- 
cluding actresses,  professional  beauties,  and  even 
dancers,  live  to  put  on  flesh. 

One  explanation  of  this  curious  and,  to  our  taste, 
most  unsesthetic  idea  of  feminine  beauty  is  its  being 
another  of  those  relics  of  Orientalism — constantly 
cropping  up  in  the  study  of  the  Spanish  character.  I 
often  wonder,  when  I  see  a  slender  Spanish  girl,  if 
she  will  ever  be  driven  to  the  extremity  of  the  "Slim 
Princess"  of  musical  comedy  fame;  who,  when  all 
else  failed,  filled  her  frock  with  bolsters,  and  her 


222  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

cheeks  with  marshmallows,  and  then — unfortunately 
— sneezed. 

If  you  told  that  story  to  a  Madrileno,  he  would 
answer  seriously,  "Oh,  but  no  Spanish  girl  would  ever 
think  of  such  a  foolish  thing."  I  am  sure,  on  second 
thoughts,  that  she  would  not.  That  is,  in  fact,  of  all 
Spanish  faults  the  gravest:  they  never,  never  think 
of  foolish  things.  Only  the  King  dares  laugh  at 
himself,  and  at  the  weighty  affairs  of  his  family. 
Last  year,  just  after  the  publication  of  the  memoirs 
of  a  certain  royal  lady  of  the  house,  and  the  high 
scandal  that  ensued,  a  new  little  infanta  was  born.  In 
presenting  her  to  his  ministers  on  the  traditional  gold 
l^latter,  the  King  said  with  his  dry  grin:  "I  have 
already  told  her  she  is  never  to  write  a  book!" 

Speaking  generally,  how^ever,  the  Spanish  sense 
of  humour  is  not  over-acute.  I  doubt,  for  instance, 
if  any  other  people  could  solemnly  arrange  and  carry 
out  a  bull-fight  for  the  benefit  of  the  S.  P.  C.  A. 
Yet  this  actually  occurred  in  Madrid  a  few  years  ago ; 
and,  the  JMadrilenos  will  tell  you  with  much  pride, 
though  the  seats  were  much  dearer  than  at  other  bull- 
fights, every  one  was  filled  by  some  patron  of  the 
noble  cause! 

Like  all  people  of  prodigious  dignity,  the  old  ac- 
tor never  sees  the  funny  side  of  his  own  performance. 
He  will  go  off  into  gales  of  laughter  over  the  mere 
shape  of  a  foreigner's  hat ;  but,  himself,  says  and  does 
the  most  absurd  things  without  the  slightest  jolt  to 
his  personal  soberness.  An  English  lady  in  Madrid 
told  me  of  a  case  in  point:  she  was  visiting  one  of 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  223 

the  unique  foundling-convents  of  Spain,  where  super- 
fluous babies  may  be  placed  in  an  open  basket  in  the 
convent  wall;  the  bell  that  is  rung  swinging  the 
basket  inside  at  the  same  time.  My  friend  was  try- 
ing to  learn  more  of  this  highly  practical  institution, 
but  the  nuns  whom  she  questioned  were  so  over- 
whelmed with  amusement  at  her  boots,  they  could 
only  look  at  her  and  giggle. 

Finally,  in  despair,  she  concluded,  "Well,  at  least 
tell  me  how  many  children  are  brought  to  you  a 
year!" 

By  supreme  effort,  one  of  the  sisters  recovered 
her  gravity.  "We  receive  about  half  a  baby  a  day, 
senora,"  she  said,  sedately,  and  could  not  understand 
why  the  lady  smiled! 

That  continual  rudeness  in  the  matter  of  staring 
and  laughing  at  strangers  was  at  first  a  great  sur- 
prise to  me — who  had  always  heard  of  the  extrav- 
agant politeness  of  the  Spaniard.  I  came  to  know 
that  he  is  polite  only  along  circumscribed  lines — until 
he  knows  you.  After  that,  I  believe  that  you  could 
take  him  at  the  literal  words  of  his  lavish  offers,  and 
burn  his  house  or  dismantle  it  entirely  without  protest 
on  his  part.  Though  too  poor  to  invite  you  to  a  meal, 
he  will  call  at  your  hotel  twice  a  day  to  leave  flowers 
from  his  garden,  and  declare  himself  at  your  disposi- 
tion; or  to  take  you  to  drive  in  the  Castellana.  He 
will  go  to  any  amount  of  trouble  to  prepare  small 
surprises  for  you:  a  box  of  sweets,  that  he  has  made 
especially;  a  bit  of  majolica  he  has  heard  you  admire; 
an  old  fan  that  is  an  heirloom  of  his  family :  every  day 


224  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

there  is  something  new,  some  further  token  of  his 
friendship  and  thought. 

It  is  true  that,  even  when  able  to  afford  it,  he 
shows  an  Eastern  exclusiveness  about  inviting  you  to 
his  house.  I  know  people  who  have  lived  in  Madrid 
seventeen  years  without  having  been  once  inside  the 
doors  of  some  of  their  Spanish  friends.  But  this  is 
racial  habit:  the  old  Oriental  tradition  of  the  home 
being  sacred  to  the  family  itself:  not  personal  slight, 
or  snobbishness.  There  is  in  it,  however,  a  certain 
caution  which  offends  the  franker  hospitality  of  the 
Anglo-Saxon.  To  go  into  petty  detail,  I  for  one 
have  never  been  able  to  overcome  my  resentment  of 
the  brass  peep-holes  (in  every  Si)anish  door)  through 
which  the  servant  j^eers  out  at  you,  before  he  will  let 
you  in.  I  realize  that  my  irritation  is  quite  as  childish 
as  their  precaution;  but  I  cannot  conquer  my  annoy- 
ance at  the  plain  impudence  of  the  thing. 

The  same  is  true  of  their  boundless  interest  in 
one's  affairs.  Peasants,  shop-keepers,  well-dressed 
ladies  and  gentlemen — everyone! — will  gather  round, 
to  hear  a  simple  question  addressed  to  a  policeman  in 
the  street.  They  take  it  for  granted  that  no  foreigner 
speaks  Spanish,  and  when  the  contrary  proves  the 
case,  their  curiosity  and  amazement  are  increased 
ten- fold. 

I  was  once  in  the  office  of  a  French  typewriter 
company  of  Madrid,  arranging  to  rent  a  machine. 
During  the  intervals  in  which  the  agent  and  I  con- 
versed in  French  he  discussed  my  requirements,  ap- 
pearance, and  probable  profession  with  a  postman,  a 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  225 

delivery-boy,  an  officer  who  came  in  to  buy  pens,  and 
the  two  young  lady  stenographers  in  the  next  room. 
In  Spanish,  of  course,  all  this ;  which  I,  as  a  foreigner, 
could  not  possibly  understand. 

This  happens  over  and  over  again,  especially  at 
pension  tables,  where  one  gleans  astounding  informa- 
tion as  to  the  geograj^hy  and  customs  of  one's  coun- 
try (from  various  good  Spaniards  who  have  never 
left  their  own),  until  a  modest  request  for  the  salt — 
proffered  in  Castilian — throws  the  entire  company 
into  horrified  confusion.  Even  then,  they  will  go  on 
to  comment  most  candidly  to  one's  face  on  the  peculi- 
arities and  generally  inferior  character  of  one's  coun- 
trymen. But  if  you  turn  the  tables  ever  so  discreetly, 
they  retort  in  triumph:  "Then  why  have  you  come  to 
Spain?  If  your  own  country  pleases  you,  why  don't 
you  stay  there?" 

Travel  for  amusement  or  education  is  simply  out- 
side their  comprehension — naturally  enough,  since  it 
is  outside  the  possibilities  of  most  of  them  today  as  it 
was  in  the  middle  ages.  We  have  already  seen  their 
ideas  of  other  countries  to  be  of  the  most  naive.  I 
have  been  seriously  congratulated  by  Madrilenos  on 
the  privilege  of  beholding  so  fine  a  thoroughfare  as 
the  Castellana,  such  splendid  shops  as  the  handful 
scattered  r.long  the  San  Geronimo,  such  a  wonderful 
building  as  the  Opera  House,  which  they  fondly  be- 
lieve "the  most  beautiful  in  the  world."  They  are 
generously  delighted  for  me,  that  after  the  primitive 
hotels  I  must  have  known  in  other  countries  I  can  en- 


226  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

joy  for  a  while  the  magnificence  of  their  modern 
"Palace." 

They,  alas,  are  too  poor  to  enjoy  it.  I  think  there 
is  something  almost  tragic  in  this  fact  that  the  entire 
society  of  Madrid  cannot  support  the  very  moderate 
charges  of  the  one  first  class  hotel  in  the  city.  When 
one  thinks  of  the  dozens  of  luxurious  stopping-places 
in  London,  New  York,  and  Paris — always  crowded 
by  a  mob  of  vulgar  people  with  their  purses  overflow- 
ing, it  seems  actually  cruel  that  the  vieille  noblesse  of 
the  Spanish  capital  have  no  money  for  the  simple  es- 
tablishment they  admire  with  child-like  extravagance. 
The  old  actor  does  so  delight  in  pomp — of  even  the 
mildest  variety ;  and  his  youthful  shortsightedness  has 
left  him  so  pitiably  unable  to  secure  it,  now  in  the  beg- 
gardom  of  his  old  age. 

Half  a  dozen  years  ago,  the  porter  of  a  friend  of 
mine  in  Madrid  won  a  lottery  prize  of  ten  thousand 
dollars.  No  sooner  had  he  come  into  this  fabulous 
wealth,  than  he  and  his  wife  proceeded  to  rent  a  house 
on  the  Castellana,  a  box  at  the  opera,  another  at  the 
bull-ring;  and  of  course  the  indispensable  carriage 
and  pair.  The  senor  had  his  clubs  and  racers,  the 
senora  her  jewels,  and  frocks  from  Paris;  they 
amazed  Madrid  with  their  magnificence. 

At  the  end  of  six  months  the  ten  thousand  dollars 
were  gone;  and  the  couple  went  back  to  the  porter's 
lodge,  where  they  have  lived  happily  ever  since. 
Could  one  make  the  last  assertion  of  two  people  of 
any  other  race  in  the  same  circumstances?  Certainly 
not  of  two  Americans !    But,  of  course,  had  they  been 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  227 

Americans,  they  would  promptly  have  invested  the 
ten  thousand  dollars,  and  doubled  it ;  in  five  years  they 
would  probably  have  been  "millionaires  from  the 
West."  Not  so  the  ingenuous  Spaniards.  With  no 
thought  for  the  morrow,  they  proceeded  to  outdo  all 
competitors  in  making  a  gorgeous  today;  and,  when 
that  was  done,  retired  without  bitterness  to  rest  on 
their  laurels. 

In  all  of  which  the  good  couple  may  have  been 
wiser  than  they  seem.  Being  true  children  of  their 
race — that  is,  without  the  first  instincts  for  "making 
money" — they  would  naturally  have  taken  what  they 
had  won,  and  stretched  it  carefully  over  the  remain- 
ing half  century  of  their  lives.  So  they  could  have 
existed  in  genteel  poverty  without  working.  As  it 
was,  they  had  their  fling — such  a  one  as  to  set  Madrid 
by  the  ears;  they  are  still  famous  for  their  unparal- 
leled prodigality;  and  they  jog  along  in  the  service  to 
which  they  were  born,  utterly  content  if  at  the  end 
of  the  day  they  have  an  hour  or  two  in  which  to  gloat 
over  their  one-time  splendour.  When  I  think  of  the 
enforced  scrimping  and  soul-shrivelling  calculation 
of  the  average  Madrileno,  I  am  always  glad  to  re- 
member two  who  threw  their  bonnets  over  the  mill, 
and  had  what  Americans  call  "one  grand  good  time." 

It  is  impossible  to  conclude  this  cursory  glance  at 
some  of  the  more  striking  of  Spanish  characteristics 
without  mention  of  the  two  finest :  honesty  and  lack  of 
self-interest.  Thej^  go  hand  in  hand  throughout  this 
country  of  rock-rooted  impulse,  and  are  forever  sur- 
prising one  used  to  the  modern  rule  of  look-sharp-or- 


228  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

be- worsted.  My  first  shock  was  in  the  Rastro  (the  old 
Thieves'  Market  of  Madrid),  when  an  old  man 
candidly  informed  me  that  the  chain  I  admired  was 
not  of  gold.  It  had  every  appearance  of  gold,  and  I 
should  have  bought  it  as  such;  but  the  shabby  old 
salesman  shook  his  head,  and  gave  it  to  me  gladly  for 
twenty  cents. 

As  Taine  tells  us,  the  Spanish  are  not  practical; 
which  endows  them,  among  other  things,  with  the  un- 
profitable quality  of  honour.  In  Toledo,  just  as  I 
was  taking  the  train,  I  discovered  that  I  had  lost  my 
watch.  It  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  have  dropped 
it  in  the  cab  our  party  had  had  for  a  long  drive  that 
afternoon;  but  when  the  hotel  proprietor  telephoned 
to  the  stables,  he  found  that  the  cab  had  not  yet  re- 
turned. "However,"  he  told  me  confidently,  "to- 
morrow the  cosaria  goes  to  Madrid,  and  if  the  watch 
is  found  she  can  bring  it  to  you." 

The  cosaria  (literally  the  "thing"  woman)  is  an 
institution  peculiar  to  Spain;  she  goes  from  town  to 
town  delivering  parcels,  produce,  and  what  not — in 
short,  she  is  the  express  company.  Of  course  I  never 
expected  to  see  my  watch  again,  but  before  six 
o'clock  of  the  following  day  the  cosaria  appeared  at 
my  door  in  Madrid  with  the  article  lost  in  Toledo — 
seventy  miles  away.  The  charge  for  her  services  was 
two  pesetas  (forty  cents).  When  I  suggested  a 
reward  for  the  coachman,  she  replied  with  amazement 
that  it  would  be  to  insult  him!  I  have  visions  of  an 
American  driver  running  risk  of  such  "insult."    He 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  229 

would  have  been  at  the  pawnshop,  and  got  his  ten 
dollars  long  since. 

An  American  friend  of  mine  who  conducts  a 
school  for  girls  in  Madrid  tells  of  a  still  rarer  ex- 
perience. One  day  her  butcher  came  to  her  in  great 
distress.  He  had  been  going  over  his  books,  and  he 
found  that  the  price  his  assistant  had  been  charging 
the  school  for  soup-bones  (daily  delivered)  was 
twice  what  it  should  have  been.  This,  said  he  with 
abject  regret,  had  been  going  on  unknown  to  him 
since  the  first  of  the  year;  he  therefore  owed  the 
sefiora  nine  hundred  j)esetas  ( one  hundred  and  eighty 
dollars)  for  bones,  and  begged  her  to  accept  this 
sum  on  the  spot,  together  with  his  profoundest 
apologies. 

I  call  such  experiences  rare,  yet  they  are  of  every- 
day occurrence  in  Spain;  so  that  one  knows  it  was 
not  here  that  Byron  said:  "I  never  trust  manners, 
for  I  once  had  my  pocket  picked  by  the  civilest  gen- 
tleman I  ever  met  with!"  In  Spai*^,  manners  and 
morals  have  an  original  habit  of  walking  out  to- 
gether; and  one  need  not,  as  in  other  countries,  fear 
a  preponderance  of  the  former  as  probable  preclusion 
of  the  latter.  That  lack  of  the  practical  sense,  which 
we  wise  analysts  deplore,  has  its  engaging  side  when 
it  brings  back  our  watch,  or  saves  us  paying  a  gold 
price  for  brass. 

In  the  matter  of  servants,  too,  one  is  allured  by  a 
startling  readiness  on  their  part  to  do  as  much  as, 
even  more  than,  they  are  paid  for.  After  the  surly 
thanks  and  sour  looks  of  the  New  York  or  London 


230  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

menial  for  anything  under  a  quarter,  the  broad  smile 
of  the  Spanish  for  five  cents  is  quite  an  episode  in 
one's  life.  The  breath-taking  part  of  it  is  that  the 
smile  is  still  forthcoming  when  the  five  cents  is  not; 
this  is  frightfully  disturbing  to  one's  nicely  arranged 
opinions  of  the  domestic  class. 

But  it  makes  living  in  JSIadrid  very  agreeable. 
Like  the  rest  of  their  countrj'^men,  servants  before 
they  know  you  are  inclined  to  be  suspicious,  and  polite 
only  along  circumscribed  lines,  but  once  they  have 
accepted  you  your  position  in  their  eyes  is  unim- 
peachable, and  the  service  they  Mall  render  has  no 
limits.  This  standard  of  judgment  of  a  very  old 
country :  the  standard,  throughout  all  classes,  of  judg- 
ment of  the  individual  for  what  he  proves  himself  to 
be,  is  extremely  interesting  as  opposed  to  the  instan- 
taneous judgment  and  unquestioning  acceptance  of 
him  as  he  outwardly  appears  to  be  by  the  very  young 
country  of  America.  To  the  American  it  is  a  dis- 
grace to  serve — or,  at  least,  to  admit  that  he  is  serv- 
ing ;  to  the  Spaniard  it  is  a  disgrace  not  to  serve,  with 
his  utmost  powers  and  grace,  anyone  worthy  of  recog- 
nition whatsoever. 

Wherefore  Spanish  maids  and  men  are  the  most 
loyal  and  devoted  the  world  over.  They  will  run  their 
feet  off  for  you  all  day  long,  and  sit  up  half  the  night 
too  if  you  will  let  them,  finishing  some  task  in  which 
they  are  interested.  When  you  are  ill,  they  make  the 
most  thoughtful  of  nurses,  never  sparing  themselves 
if  it  is  to  give  you  even  a  fractional  amount  of  com- 
fort.   And  to  all  your  thanks  they  return  a  deprecat- 


THE    BROKEN-DOWN    ACTOR  231 

ing  "for  nothing — for  nothing."  They  have  never 
heard  of  "an  eight-hour  day";  the  Union  of  Domestic 
Labour  would  be  to  them  a  title  in  Chinese ;  yet  they 
find  life  worth  living.  They  are  even^breathe  it  not 
among  the  moderns! — contented;  still  more  strange, 
they  are  considered,  and  whenever  possible  spared,  by 
their  unmodern  masters  and  mistresses. 

It  is  the  civilization  of  an  unpractical  people;  a 
people  not  in  terror  of  giving  something  for  nothing, 
but  eager  always  to  give  more.  They  are,  I  believe, 
the  one  peoj^le  to  whom  money — in  the  human  rela- 
tions of  life — never  occurs.  And  so,  of  course,  they 
are  despised  by  other  peoples — for  their  poverty,  their 
lack  of  "push."  Nowadays  we  worship  the  genius  of 
Up-To-Date:  his  marvellous  invention,  his  lightning 
calculation  and  keen  move;  his  sweating,  struggling, 
superman's  performance,  day  by  day — and  his  final 
triumph.  We  disdain  the  old  actor  of  mere  grand- 
iloquence, content  to  dream,  passive  in  his  corner. 

Yet  are  his  childishness  and  self-sufficiency,  even 
his  ignorance,  so  much  meaner  than  the  greed  and 
sordidness  and  treachery  of  the  demigod  of  today? 
And  is  the  inexorable  activity  of  the  modern  "Napo- 
leon of  finance"  so  surely  worth  more  than  the  atti- 
tude of  the  shabby  old  man  who  refused  to  sell  brass 
for  gold? 


IN    REVIEW 

(London) 


THE  CRITICS 

Coming  into  London  from  Paris  or  New  York, 
or  even  from  Madrid,  is  like  alighting  from  a  brilliant 
panoramic  railway  onto  solid,  unpretentious  mother 
earth.  The  massive  bulk  of  bridges,  the  serene  state- 
liness  of  ancient  towers  and  spires,  the  restful  green 
sweep  of  park — unbroken  by  flower-beds  or  too  many 
trees;  the  quiet  leisure  of  the  JNIall,  and  the  sedate 
brown  palace  overlooking  it :  all  is  tranquil,  dignified, 
soothing.  One  leans  against  the  cushions  of  one's 
beautifully  luxurious  taxi,  and  sighs  profound  con- 
tentment.   Here  is  order,  well-being,  peace! 

And  yonder,  typical  of  it  all,  as  the  midinette  is 
typical  of  Paris  and  the  torero  of  Spain,  stands  the 
imperturbable  London  "bobby."  Already  you  have 
met  his  Southampton  or  Dover  cousin  on  the  pier; 
where  the  latter's  calm,  competent  orders  made  the 
usual  flurried  transfer  from  boat  to  train  a  simple 
matter.  Too,  you  have  made  acquaintance  with  that 
policeman-in-embryo,  the  English  porter.  His 
brisk,  capable  answers:  "Yes,  sir.  This  way,  please 
sir.  Seven-twenty  at  Victoria,  right,  sir!":  and  his 
deft  piloting  of  you  and  your  luggage  into  the  haven 

235 


236  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

of  an  empty  carriage — in  these  days  of  frenzied  de- 
mocracy, whence  can  one  derive  such  exotic  comfort 
as  from  a  servant  who  acknowledges  himself  a  ser- 
vant, and  performs  his  servant's  duties  to  perfection? 

I  used  to  wonder  why  travelling  in  England  is 
so  much  more  agreeable  than  travelling  in  America, 
with  all  the  conveniences  the  latter  boasts.  I  think 
it  is  because,  where  America  gives  you  things  to  make 
you  comfortable,  England  gives  you  people — a  host 
of  them,  well  trained  and  intent  only  on  serving  you. 
The  personal  contact  makes  all  the  difference,  with 
one's  flattered  vanity.  The  policeman,  the  porter,  the 
guard  who  finds  one  a  seat,  the  boy  who  brings  one  a 
tea-basket,  finally  the  chauffeur  who  drives  one  to  an 
hotel  and  the  doorman  who  grasps  one's  bag:  each 
and  all  tacitly  insinuate  that  they  exist  to  look  out  for 
oneself  in  particular,  for  all  men  in  general.  What 
wonder  that  Englishmen  are  snobs?  Their  universe 
revolves  round  them,  is  made  for  as  well  as  by  them; 
and  what  they  want,  when  they  want  it,  is  always 
within  arm's  reach.  They  are  the  inventors  and  per- 
f  ectors  of  the  Groove. 

But  no  one  can  accuse  them  of  being  sj'^barites. 
Comfort,  luxury,  the  elaborate  service  vrith  which 
they  insist  on  being  surrounded  are  only  accessory  to 
a  root-idea  which  may  even  be  called  a  passion:  the 
producing  of  great  men.  To  this,  as  to  all  great  crea- 
tion, routine  is  necessary,  and  the  careful  systematiz- 
ing of  life  into  classes  and  sub-classes,  each  with  its 
special  duties.  English  people  actually  love  their 
duties,  they  are  taught  from  childhood  to  love  them; 


IN    REVIEW  237 

and  to  attend  to  them  before  everything.  A's  reward, 
when  work  is  finished,  they  have  the  manifold  pleas- 
ures of  home.  This  is  odd  indeed,  to  the  American  or 
European — to  whom  duty  is  a  dreary  thing,  to  be 
avoided  whenever  possible ;  and  home  a  place  to  leave, 
in  search  of  pleasure,  not  to  come  back  to.  In  con- 
sequence, the  general  summary  of  England  is:  "dull." 

English  people  are  called  dull — "heavy"  is  the 
more  popular  word — because  they  do  not  gather  on 
street-corners  or  in  cafes,  arguing  and  gesticulating, 
but  go  methodically  about  their  business;  leaving  the 
stranger  to  do  the  same.  Of  course,  if  the  latter  has 
no  business,  this  is  depressing.  Here  he  is  in  an  un- 
known country,  with  nothing  to  do  but  sight-see, 
W'hich  bores  him  infinitely.  There  is  no  one  with  whom 
to  talk,  no  pleasant  congregating-spot  where  he  could 
at  least  look  on  at,  if  not  share  in,  the  life  of  the  peo- 
ple. He  is  thrown  dismally  back  upon  himself  for 
diversion.  So  what  does  he  do?  He  goes  and  sees  the 
sights,  w  hich  w  as  his  duty  from  the  beginning.  Just 
as  he  goes  to  bed  at  midnight  because  every  place 
except  bed  is  closed  against  him;  and  to  church  on 
Sundays  because  every  building  except  church  is  shut. 
England  not  only  expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty, 
she  makes  it  practically  impossible  for  him  to  do  any- 
thing else ;  by  which  she  shrewdly  gains  his  maximum 
efficiency  when  and  where  she  needs  it. 

In  return,  or  rather  in  preparation,  she  gives  him 
a  remarkably  fine  groundwork,  both  mental  and  phys- 
ical, to  start  with.  No  foreigner  can  fail  to  be  im- 
pressed with  the  minute  care  and  thought  bestowed 


238  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

upon  English  children,  and  the  sacrifices  gladly  made 
to  secure  their  health  and  best  development.  In  com- 
parison with  French  and  American  and  Spanish  par- 
ents, the  English  mother  and  father  may  seem 
undemonstrative,  even  cold;  they  do  not  gush  over 
their  children  in  public,  nor  take  them  out  to  res- 
taurants, or  permit  them  to  share  their  own  meals  at 
home.  Neither,  however,  do  they  give  them  the  least 
comfortable  rooms  in  the  house,  and  decree  that  their 
wants  and  needs  shall  be  second  to  those  of  the  adult 
members  of  the  family.  The  children  have  a  routine 
of  their  own,  constructed  carefully  for  them,  and 
studied  to  fit  their  changing  requirements.  They  have 
their  own  rooms — as  large  and  light  and  sunny  as  the 
parents  can  contrive — their  own  meals,  of  wholesome 
food  served  at  sensible  hours ;  their  fixed  time  for  ex- 
ercise and  study  alike:  everything  is  planned  to  give 
them  the  best  possible  start  for  mind  and  body. 

"But,"  the  French  or  American  mother  objects, 
when  one  extols  this  system,  "it  takes  so  much  money; 
so  many  rooms,  so  many  servants — two  distinct  house- 
holds, in  fact."  It  takes  a  different  distribution  of 
money,  that  is  all.  As  the  children  are  never  on  show, 
their  clothes  are  simple ;  the  clothes  of  the  parents  are 
apt  to  be  simple  too.  Amusement  is  not  sought  out- 
side the  home  in  England,  as  it  is  in  other  countries; 
both  interest  and  money  are  centred  within  the  house 
and  garden  that  is  each  man's  castle.  This  makes 
possible  many  comforts  which  people  of  other  coun- 
tries look  upon  as  luxuries,  but  which  to  the  English- 
man and  woman  are  the  first  necessities.    And  pri- 


IN    REVIEW  239 

mary  among  these  is  a  healthful,  cheerful  place  to 
rear  their  children. 

Not  only  the  wealthy,  but  people  in  very  modest 
circumstances  insist  upon  this;  and  in  houses  of  but 
six  or  seven  rooms  one  finds  the  largest  and  airiest 
given  over  to  the  day  and  night  nurseries  for  the  chil- 
dren. Fresh  chintz  and  white  paint  and  simple  furni- 
ture make  these  the  most  attractive  as  well  as  most 
sensible  surroundings  for  the  small  people.  Nurses, 
teachers,  school- fellows,  the  whole  chain  of  influence 
linking  the  development  of  the  English  child,  em- 
phasize the  idea  of  physical  fitness  as  a  first  es- 
sential. And  this  idea  is  so  early  instilled,  and  so 
constantly  and  emphatically  fostered,  that  it  becomes 
the  kernel  of  the  grown  man's  activity.  The  stern 
creed  that  only  the  fit  survive  rules  England  almost 
as  it  ruled  old  Sparta:  a  creed  terrible  for  the  weak, 
but  splendid  for  the  strong;  and  that  has  produced 
such  men  as  Gordon,  Rhodes,  Kitchener,  Curzon  and 
Roberts — and  hundreds  of  others,  the  fruit  of  this 
rigorous  policy. 

First  the  home,  then  the  public  schools  teacK  it. 
At  school,  a  boy  must  establish  himself  by  his  proven 
prowess  in  one  direction  or  another.  To  gain  a  foot- 
ing, and  then  to  hold  it,  he  must  do  something — row, 
or  play  cricket  or  football;  but  play,  and  play  hard, 
he  must.  The  other  boys  force  him  to  it,  whether  he 
will  or  no ;  hardness  is  their  religion,  and  those  who  do 
not  conform  to  it  are  practically  finished  before  they 
begin.  The  reputation  won  at  school  lays  or  perma- 
nently fails  to  lay  the  foundation  of  after  success. 


240  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

"Hm  .  .  .  yes,  I  remember  him  at  Eton,"  has  sum- 
marized many  a  man's  chances  for  promotion  or  fail- 
ure. Rarely  does  he  prove  himself  to  be  worth  later 
more  than  he  was  worth  then. 

It  is  interesting  to  follow  the  primitive  ideal,  of 
bodily  perfection,  throughout  this  old  and  perhaps 
most  finely  developed  civilization  of  the  present.  In 
the  hurry-scurry  of  modern  affairs,  when  other  men 
pay  little  or  no  heed  to  preserving  their  bodily 
strength,  never  does  this  cease  to  be  the  first  con- 
sideration of  the  Englishman.  He  wants  money  and 
position  and  power  quite  as  keenly  as  other  men  want 
them;  but  he  has  been  born  and  reared  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  to  gain  these  things,  then  to  enjoy  them, 
sound  nerves  are  necessary.  His  impulse  is  to  store 
up  energy  faster  than  he  spends  it,  and  not  to  waste 
himself  on  a  series  of  trifles  someone  else  can  do  as 
well  if  not  better  than  he. 

Hence  the  carefully  ordered  routine  he  follows 
from  childhood;  the  systematic  exercise,  the  frequent 
holidays  his  strenuous  American  cousin  scoffs  at. 
All  are  designed  to  keep  him  hard  and  fit,  and  ready 
for  emergencies  that  may  demand  surplus  strength. 
]Middle-aged  men  play  the  game  and  follow  the  hob- 
bies of  young  men;  the  elderly  vie  with  the  middle- 
aged.  In  England,  the  fast  and  fixed  lines  that 
divide  youth  from  maturity  are  blurred  by  the  hearty 
good  comradeship  of  sport;  in  which  all  ages  and 
classes  share  alike.  Sport  is  not  a  hobby  with  the 
Englishman;  it  is  the  backbone  of  his  existence. 
Therefore,  I  think,  it  is  so  hard  for  the  foreigner  to 


IN    REVIEW  241 

enter  into  the  real  sports  spirit  of  England :  he  never 
quite  appreciates  the  vital  motive  behind  it.  With  the 
Frenchman  and  the  American  and  the  Spaniard — 
even  with  the  Austrian — sport  is  recreation ;  they  take 
it  apart  from  the  business  of  life,  where  the  English- 
man takes  it  as  essential  to  life  itself.  By  it  he  es- 
tablishes and  maintains  his  working  efficiency,  and 
without  it  he  would  have  lost  his  chief  tool,  and  his 
perennial  remedy  for  whatever  ills  befall  him. 

Obviously,  it  is  this  demand  for  physical  perfec- 
tion that  underlies  and  engenders  the  national  wor- 
ship of  race ;  and  that  is  responsible,  in  the  last  analy- 
sis, for  the  renowned  snobbishness  of  the  English. 
Someone  has  said  that  English  Society  revolves 
round  the  King  and  the  horse — or,  as  he  might 
have  added,  round  the  supreme  symbols  of  hu- 
man and  animal  development.  That  towards 
which  everyone  is  striving — to  breed  finer  and 
stronger  creatures — is  crystallized  in  these  two  super- 
lative types.  While  from  the  King  down,  on  the  hu- 
man side,  the  scale  is  divided  into  the  most  minute 
shades  of  gradation. 

As  government  in  England  tends  to  become  more 
and  more  democratic,  society  tends  to  become  more 
aristocratic — as  far  as  magnifying  ancient  names  and 
privileges  is  concerned.  "A  title  is  always  a  title," 
said  a  practical  American  lady,  "but  an  English  title 
is  just  a  bit  better."  It  is,  because  English  people 
think  so,  and  have  thought  it  so  long  and  so  emphati- 
cally that  they  have  brought  every^one  else  to  that 
opinion.     The  same  is  true  of  many  English  institu- 


242  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

tions,  admirable  in  themselves  but  which  actually  are 
admired  because  the  English  admire  them.  Every 
nation  is  more  or  less  egoist,  but  none  is  so  sincerely 
and  consistently  egoist  as  the  English.  They  travel 
the  earth,  but  they  travel  to  observe  and  criticize ;  not 
to  assimilate  foreign  things. 

The  American  is  a  chameleon,  taking  on  the  habits 
and  ideas  of  each  place  as  he  lives  in  it;  Latins  have 
not  a  little  of  this  character  too.  But  the  Briton, 
wherever  he  goes,  remains  the  Briton:  you  never  mis- 
take him,  in  Palestine  or  Alaska  or  the  South  Sea  Is- 
lands: no  matter  where  he  is,  he  has  brought  his  tea 
and  his  tub  and  his  point  of  view  with  him.  And, 
though  he  may  be  one  among  thousands  of  another 
nationality,  somehow  these  others  become  impressed 
with  his  traditions  rather  than  he  with  theirs.  Per- 
haps because  away  fror^  home,  he  calmly  pursues  the 
home  routine,  adjusting  the  life  of  his  temporary  hab- 
itation to  himself,  rather  than  himself  to  it.  If  he 
is  accustomed  to  dress  for  dinner,  he  dresses;  though 
the  rest  of  the  company  may  appear  in  corduroys  and 
neckerchiefs.  And  continues  to  dress,  imperturbably, 
no  matter  how  mercilessly  he  may  be  ridiculed  or 
even  despised.  If  he  is  accustomed  to  take  tea  at  a 
certain  hour,  he  takes  it — in  Brazil  or  Thibet,  it  makes 
no  difference.  And  the  same  is  true  of  his  religious 
observance,  his  beloved  exercise,  his  hobbies  and  his 
study:  of  all  these  things  he  is  too  firmly  convinced 
to  change  them  by  one  jot.  Such  an  attitude  is 
bound  to  have  its  effect  on  these  peristently  con- 
fronted with  it;  resentment,  then  curiosity,  finally  a 


IN    REVIEW  «43 

certain  grudging  respect  is  born  in  the  minds  of  the 
people  on  whom  the  EngHshman  serenely  forces  his 
superiority.  They  wonder  about  his  country — he 
never  sounds  its  praises  or  urges  them  to  visit  it.  He 
simply  speaks  with  complete  contentment  of  "going 
home." 

When  the  foreigner,  often  out  of  very  pique,  fol- 
lows him  thither,  he  is  met  with  the  same  indifference 
shown  him  in  his  own  land.  Visiting  strangers  may 
come  or  go:  while  they  are  in  England,  they  are 
treated  with  civility ;  w  hen  they  choose  to  depart,  they 
are  not  pressed  to  remain.  This  tranquil  self-suffi- 
ciency is  galling  to  the  majority,  who  go  away  to  sulk, 
and  to  denounce  the  English  as  a  race  of  "dull  snobs." 
Yet  they  come  back  again — and  again;  and  continue 
to  hammer  at  the  door  labelled  "British  Reserve,"  and 
to  be  snubbed,  and  to  swallow  their  pride  and  begin 
anew,  until  finally  they  pry  their  w^ay  in  by  sheer  ob- 
stinacy— and  because  no  one  cares  very  much,  after 
all,  whether  they  are  in  or  not.  London  is  so  vast  and 
so  diverse,  in  its  social  ramifications,  it  can  admit  thou- 
sands of  aliens  a  year  and  remain  quite  unconscious 
of  them. 

Americans  in  particular  are  quick  to  realize  this, 
and,  out  of  their  natural  arrogance,  bitterly  to  resent 
it.  At  home  they  explain  rather  piteously,  they  are 
"r'omeone";  here,  their  money  is  accepted,  but  they 
themselves  are  despised — or,  at  best,  barely  tolerated. 
They  who  are  used  to  carry  all  before  them  find  them- 
selves patronized,  smiled  at  indulgently — or,  worst  of 
aU,  ignored.    In  short,  the  inexperienced  yomig  actors 


244  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

come  before  an  audience  of  seasoned  critics,  whom 
they  cannot  persuade  to  take  them  seriously.  For 
they  soon  discover  that  there  is  no  "bkiffing"  these 
calmly  judicial  people,  but  that  merit  alone — of  one 
sort  or  another — succeeds  with  them. 

They  are  not  to  be  "impressed"  by  tales  of  reck- 
less expenditure  or  intimate  allusions  to  grand  dukes 
and  princesses  seen  on  the  promenades  of  Continental 
"cures."  On  the  contrary,  they  are  won  over  in  no 
time  by  something  the  American  would  never  think 
of  using  as  a  wedge — unaffected  simplicity.  But  why 
should  one  want  to  win  them — whether  one  be  Ameri- 
can or  French,  Spanish,  German,  or  any  other  self- 
respecting  egoist-on-one's-own  ?  Why  does  one  al- 
ways want  to  win  the  critical? 

Because  they  set  a  standard.  The  English  have 
set  standards  since  ever  they  were  at  all:  wise  stand- 
ards, foolish  standards,  some  broad  and  finely  toler- 
ant, others  absurdly  narrow  and  short-sighted.  But 
always  they  live  by  strict  established  rule,  to  which 
they  demand  of  themselves  exacting  conformity. 
Each  class  has  its  individual  ten  commandments — as 
is  possible  where  classes  are  so  definitely  graded  and 
set  apart;  each  man  is  born  to  obey  the  decalogue  of 
his  class — or  to  be  destroyed.  Practically  limitless 
personal  liberty  is  his,  within  the  laws  of  his  partic- 
ular section  of  society ;  but  let  him  once  overstep  these, 
and  he  soon  finds  himself  in  gaol  of  one  kind  or  an- 
other. 

Foreigners  feel  all  this,  and  respond  to  it;  just  as 
they  respond  to  the  French  criterion  of  beauty,  the 


IN    REVIEW  245 

American  criterion  of  wealth.  England  for  centuries 
has  stood  for  the  prccieux  of  society,  in  the  large 
significance  of  the  term;  before  her  unwavering  ideal 
of  race,  other  people  voluntarily  come  to  be  judged 
for  distinction,  as  they  go  to  Paris  to  be  judged  for 
their  artistic  quality,  to  New  York  for  their  powers 
of  accomplishment.  Today  more  than  ever,  London 
confers  the  social  diploma  of  the  world  which  makes 
it,  of  course,  the  world's  Mecca  and  chief  meeting- 
place. 

This  has  completely  changed  the  character  of  the 
conservative  old  city,  from  a  provincial  insular  capital 
into  a  great  cosmopolitan  centre.  Necessarily  it  has 
leavened  the  traditional  British  self-satisfaction,  while 
that  colossus  slept,  by  the  introduction  of  new  prin- 
ciples, new  problems,  new  points  of  view.  The  critic 
remains  the  critic,  but  he  must  march  with  the  times — 
or  lose  his  station.  And  conservatism  is  a  dotard 
nowadays.  Each  new  republic,  as  it  comes  along, 
shoves  the  old  man  a  foot  further  towards  his  grave. 
Expansion  is  the  battle-cry  of  the  present,  and  critics 
and  actors  alike  must  look  alive,  and  modulate  their 
voices  to  the  chorus. 

A  bewildering  babel  of  tunes  is  the  natural  result 
in  this  transition  period,  but  many  of  them  are  fine 
and  all  are  interesting.  England  lifts  her  voice  to 
announce  that  she  is  not  an  island  but  an  Empire; 
and  it  is  the  fashion  in  London  now  to  treat  Colonials 
with  civility,  even  actually  to  fete  them.  Autre 
temps,  autre  mceurs!  We  have  heard  Mr.  Bernard 
Shaw's  charwoman  ask  her  famous  daughter  of  the 


M6  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

Halls:  "But  what'll  his  duchess  mother  be  thinkin* 
if  the  dook  marries  a  ballyrina,  with  me  for  a  mother- 
in-law?"  And  the  answer:  "Indeed,  she  says  she's 
glad  he'll  have  somebody  to  pay  his  income  tax,  when 
it  goes  to  twenty  shillings  in  the  pound!" 

The  outcry  against  American  peeresses  and 
musical  comedy  marchionesses  has  long  since  died  into 
a  murmur,  and  a  feeble  murmur  at  that.  Since  an- 
other astute  playwright  suggested  that  the  race  of 
Vere  de  Vere  might  be  distinctly  improved  by  the 
infusion  of  some  healthy  vulgar  blood,  and  a  chin 
or  two  amongst  them,  the  aristocratic  gates  have 
opened  almost  eagerly  to  receive  these  alien  beauties. 
In  politics,  too,  new  blood  is  welcomed ;  as  it  is  in  the 
Church,  in  the  universities,  and  even  in  that  haughtiest 
of  citadels,  the  county.  The  egoism  of  England  is 
becoming  a  more  practical  egoism:  she  is  beginning 
to  see  where  she  can  use  the  things  she  has  hitherto 
disdained,  and  is  almost  pathetically  anxious  to  make 
up  for  lost  time.  But,  for  ballast,  she  has  always  her 
uncompromising  standards,  by  which  both  things  and 
people  must  be  weighed  and  found  good,  before  being 
accepted. 

In  short,  while  the  bugaboo  of  invasion  and  the 
more  serious  menace  of  Socialism  have  grown  up  to 
lead  pessimists  to  predict  ruin  for  the  country,  subtler 
influences  have  been  at  work  to  make  her  greater  than 
ever  before.  The  signs  of  conflict  are  almost  always 
hopeful  signs;  only  stagnation  spells  ruin.  And 
where  once  the  English  delighted  to  stagnate — or  at 
least  to  sit  within  their  insular  shell  and  admire  them- 


IN    REVIEW  247 

selves  without  qualification — now  they  are  looking 
keenly  about,  to  acquire  useful  men  and  methods  from 
every  possible  source.  Finding,  a  bit  to  their  own 
surprise,  that,  rather  than  diminishing  their  prestige 
in  the  process,  they  are  strengthening  it. 

The  routine  is  being  amplified,  made  to  fit  the 
spirit  of  the  time,  which  is  a  spirit  of  progress  above 
all  things.  John  Bull  has  evolved  from  a  hard-riding, 
hard-drinking,  provincial  squire  into  a  keen-thinking 
tactician  with  cosmopolitan  tendencies  and  breadth  of 
view.  From  London  as  his  reviewing-stand,  he 
scrutinizes  the  nations  as  they  pass;  and  his  judgment 
— but  that  is  for  another  chapter. 


II 

THE  JUDGMENT 

"Now  learn  what  morals  critics  ought  to  show, 

"For  'tis  but  half  a  judge's  task  to  know," 
says  Pope,  who  himself  was  hopelessly  immoral  in 
the  manufacture  of  couplets.  And  what  two  men 
ever  agreed  on  morality,  anyhow?  The  personal 
equation  is  never  more  prominent  than  in  the  expres- 
sion of  the  "individual's  views,"  as  nowadays  ethics  are 
dubbed.  One  may  fancy  oneself  the  most  catholic  of 
judges,  yet  one  constantly  betrays  the  hereditary 
prejudices  that  can  be  modified  but  never  quite  cast 
off. 

I  was  recently  with  an  Englishman  at  an  outdoor 
variety  theatre  in  Madrid.  We  sat  restively  through 
the  miserable,  third-rate  performance,  grumbling  at 
each  number  as  it  proved  worse  than  the  last,  and 
finally  waxing  positively  indignant  over  the  ear-split- 
ting trills  and  outrageous  contortions  of  the  prima 
donna  of  the  evening.  "Still,"  said  the  Englishman 
suddenly,  "she  has  had  the  energy  to  keep  herself  fit, 
and  to  come  out  here  and  do  something.  Really,  she 
isn't  so  bad,  you  know,  after  all." 

Before  she  had  finished,  he  was  actually  approv- 

248 


IN    REVIEW  249 

ing  of  her :  her  mere  physical  soundness  had  conquered 
him,  and  her  adlierence  to  his  elemental  creed  of  "do- 
ing something"  and  doing  it  with  all  one's  might. 
The  artistic  and  the  sentimental  viewpoints,  which 
the  Englishman  always  wears  self-consciously,  slip 
away  from  him  like  gossamer  when  even  the  most  in- 
direct appeal  is  made  to  his  fetish  of  physical  fitness. 
In  respect  of  this,  he  is  by  no  means  a  snob,  but  a  true 
democrat. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  are  many  breaks  in  the 
haughty  traditional  armour.  It  is  in  New  York,  not 
London,  that  one  hears  severe  discussion  of  A's 
charwoman  grandmother,  B's  lady's  maid  mother, 
C's  father  who  deals  in  tinned  beans.  What  London 
wants  to  know  is  what  A,  B,  and  C  do;  and  how  they 
do  it.  Snobbism  turns  its  searchlight  on  the  individ- 
ual, not  on  his  forbears ;  though  to  the  individual  it  is 
merciless  enough.  In  consequence,  the  city  has  be- 
came a  sort  of  international  Athenaeum,  a  clearing- 
ground  for  the  theories,  dreams  and  fanaticisms  of 
all  men. 

I  remember  being  tremendously  impressed,  at  my 
very  first  London  tea-party,  by  the  respect  and  keen 
interest  shown  each  of  the  various  enthusiasts  gath- 
ered there.  A  Labour  leader,  a  disciple  of  Buddhism, 
the  founder  of  a  new  kind  of  dramatic  school,  a  mis- 
sionary from  the  Congo  and  a  Post-Impressionist 
painter :  all  were  listened  to,  in  turn,  and  their  several 
hobbies  received  with  lively  attention.  The  Labour 
leader  got  a  good  deal  of  counter-argument,  the  Post- 
Impressionist  his  share  of  good-humoured  chaffing; 


250  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

but  everyone  was  given  the  floor,  and  a  chance  to  beat 
his  particular  drum  as  hard  as  he  Kked,  until  the  next 
came  on. 

The  essential  thing,  in  London,  is  that  one  shall 
have  a  drum  to  beat;  small  talk,  and  the  polite 
platitudes  that  sway  the  social  reunions  of  New  York 
and  Paris,  are  relegated  to  the  very  youthful  or  the 
very  dull.  Nor  is  cleverness  greeted  with  the  raised 
eyebrow  of  dismay ;  people  are  not  afraid,  or  too  lazy, 
to  think.  One  sees  that  in  the  newspapers,  the  books 
and  plays,  as  well  as  in  the  drawing-room  conversa- 
tion of  the  English.  The  serious,  even  the  so-called 
heavy,  topics,  as  well  as  the  subtle,  finely  ironic,  and 
sharply  critical,  are  given  place  and  attention ;  not  by 
a  few  precieux  alone,  but  by  the  mass  of  the  people. 
And  not  to  be  well  informed  is  to  be  out  of  the  world, 
for  both  men  and  women. 

Of  course,  there  is  the  usual  set  of  "smart"  fash- 
ionables who  delight  in  ignorance  and  whose  languid 
energies  are  spent  between  clothes  and  the  newest  one- 
step.  But  these  are  no  more  typical  of  London  so- 
ciety than  they  are  of  any  other ;  though  in  the  minds 
of  many  intelligent  foreigners  they  have  become  so, 
through  having  their  doings  conspicuously  chronicled 
in  foreign  newspapers  and  by  undiscriminating  visi- 
tors returning  from  England.  On  one  point,  this 
confusion  of  English  social  sets  is  easily  understood: 
they  share  the  same  moral  leniency  that  permits  all  to 
lend  themselves  to  situations  and  ideas  which  scandal- 
ize the  foreigner. 

It  is  not  that  as  a  people  they  are  more  vicious 


IN    REVIEW  «61 

than  any  other,  but  they  are  franker  in  their  vice; 
they  have  no  fine  shades.  An  American  woman  told 
me  of  the  shock  she  received  at  her  first  EngHsh 
house-party,  where  her  hostess — a  friend  of  years, 
who  had  several  times  visited  her  in  New  York — knew 
scarcely  one-half  of  her  own  guests.  The  rest  were 
"friends,"  without  whom  nothing  would  induce  cer- 
tain ladies  and  gentlemen  to  come, 

"It  wasn't  the  fact  of  it,"  said  the  Americaine, 
candidly;  "of  course  such  things  exist  everywhere, 
but  they  aren't  so  baldly  apparent  and  certainly  they 
aren't  discussed.  Those  people  actually  quarrelled 
about  the  arrangement  of  rooms,  and  changed  about 
with  the  most  bare-faced  openness.  My  hostess  and 
I  were  the  only  ones  who  didn't  pair,  and  we  were 
simply  regarded  as  hypocrites  without  the  courage  of 
our  desires." 

All  of  which  is  perfectly  true,  and  an  everyday  oc- 
currence in  English  social  life.  The  higher  up  the 
scale,  the  broader  tolerance  becomes.  "Depend  upon 
it,"  said  a  lady  of  the  old  regime,  "God  Almighty 
thinks  twice  before  he  condemns  persons  of  quality!" 
And,  in  England,  mere  human  beings,  to  be  on  the 
safe  side,  do  not  condemn  them  at  all.  The  middle- 
class  (the  sentimentalists  of  every  nation)  lead  a  life 
of  severe  rectitude — and  revel  in  the  sins  of  their  bet- 
ters, which  they  invent  if  the  latter  have  none.  But  di- 
rectly a  man  is  a  gentlemen,  or  a  woman  a  lady,  every- 
thing is  allowable.  Personal  freedom  within  the  class 
laws  holds  good  among  morals  as  among  manners; 
and  the  result  is  rather  horrifying  to  the  stranger. 


25«  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

French  people,  for  example,  are  far  more  shocked 
at  the  English  than  the  English  are  at  them.  With 
the  former,  the  offense  is  against  good  taste — always 
a  worse  crime,  in  Latin  eyes,  than  any  mere  breach  of 
ethics.  The  Englishman's  unvarnished  candour  in 
airing  his  private  affairs  appears  to  the  Latin  as  crass 
and  unnecessary;  while  in  the  Englishwoman  it  be- 
comes to  him  positively  repellent.  The  difference, 
throughout,  in  the  two  races,  is  the  difference  between 
the  masculine  and  the  feminine  points  of  view.  Eng- 
land is  ever  and  always  a  man's  country.  Even  the 
women  look  at  things  through  the  masculine  vision, 
and  to  an  extent  share  the  masculine  prerogatives. 
As  long  as  a  woman's  husband  accepts  what  she  does, 
everyone  accepts  her ;  which  explains  how  in  the  coun- 
try where  women  are  clamouring  most  frantically  for 
equal  privileges,  a  great  number  of  women  enjoy 
privileges  unheard  of  by  their  "free"  sisters  of  other 
lands. 

It  is  a  question  of  position,  not  of  sex ;  and  harks 
back — moral  privilege,  I  mean — to  that  core  of  all 
EngHsh  institutions :  breeding.  There  are  no  bounds 
to  the  latitude  allowed  the  great,  though  it  does  not 
seem  to  occur  to  the  non- great  that  such  license  in  it- 
self brings  into  question  the  rights  of  many  who  hold 
old  names  and  ancient  titles.  Succession,that  all-ini- 
portant  factor  of  the  whole  social  system,  is  hedged 
about  with  many  an  interrogation  point ;  which  society 
is  pleased  to  ignore,  nevertheless,  on  the  ground  of 
noblesse  oblige!  Above  a  certain  stratum,  the  Eng- 
Hsh calmly  dispense  with  logic,  and  bestow  divine 


IN    REVIEW  «53 

rights  on  all  men  alike;  obviously  it  is  the  only  thing 
to  do,  and  besides  it  confers  divine  obligations  at  the 
same  time. 

One  must  say  for  all  Englishmen  that  rarely  if 
ever,  in  their  personal  liberty,  do  they  lose  sight 
of  their  obligations.  In  the  midst  of  after- 
dinner  hilarity,  one  will  see  a  club-room  empty  as  if 
by  magic,  and  the  members  hurry  away  in  taxis  or 
their  own  limousines.  One  knows  that  a  division  is 
to  be  called  for,  and  that  it  wants  perhaps  ten  minutes 
of  the  hour.  The  same  thing  happens  at  balls  or  al- 
most any  social  function :  the  men  never  fail  to  attend 
when  they  can,  for  they  are  distinctly  social  creatures ; 
but  they  keep  a  quiet  eye  on  the  clock,  and  slip  out 
when  duty  calls  them  eleswhere.  This  serves  two 
excellent  purposes:  of  preventing  brain-fag  among 
the  "big"  men  of  the  hour,  and  leading  the  zest  of 
their  interests  and  often  great  undertakings  to  so- 
ciety— which  in  many  countries  never  sees  them. 

In  England  politics  and  society  are  far  more 
closely  allied  than  in  America  or  on  the  Continent. 
Each  takes  colour  from  the  other,  and  becomes  more 
significant  thereby.  The  fact  of  a  person's  being 
born  to  great  wealth  and  position,  instead  of  turning 
him  into  an  idle  spendthrift,  compels  his  taking  an 
important  part  in  the  affairs  of  the  country.  The 
average  English  peer  is  about  as  hard-working  a  man 
as  can  be  found,  unless  it  be  the  King  himself;  and 
the  average  English  hostess,  far  from  being  a  butter- 
fly of  pleasure,  has  a  round  of  duties  as  exacting  as 
those  of  the  Prime  INIinister.    Through  all  the  delight- 


254  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

ful  superficial  intercourse  of  a  London  season,  there 
is  an  undercurrent  of  serious  purpose,  felt  and  shared 
by  everyone,  though  by  each  one  differently. 

At  luncheons,  dinners,  garden-parties  and  recep- 
tions the  talk  veers  sooner  or  later  towards  politics 
and  national  affairs.  All  "sets,"  the  fashionable,  the 
artistic,  the  sporting,  the  adventurous,  as  well  as  the 
politicians  themselves,  meet  and  become  absorbed  in 
last  night's  debate  or  the  Bill  to  come  up  for  its  third 
reading  tomorrow.  By  the  way,  for  a  foreigner  to 
participate  in  these  bouts  of  keen  discussion,  he  must 
become  addicted  to  the  national  habit:  before  going 
anywhere,  he  must  read  the  Times. 

As  regularly  as  he  takes  his  early  cup  of  tea,  every 
self-respecting  Englishman  after  breakfast  retires 
into  a  corner  mth  the  Times,  and  never  emerges  until 
he  has  masticated  the  last  paragraph.  Then  and  only 
then  is  he  ready  to  go  forth  for  the  day,  properly 
equipped  to  do  battle.  And  he  speedily  discovers  if 
you  are  not  similarly  prepared — and  beats  you.  Of 
all  the  characteristic  English  things  I  can  think  of, 
none  is  so  English  as  the  Times.  In  it  you  find,  be- 
sides full  reports  of  political  proceedings  and  the 
usual  births,  marriages,  and  deaths,  letters  from  Eng- 
lishmen all  the  way  from  Halifax  to  Singapore.  Let- 
ters on  the  incapacity  of  American  servants,  the  best 
method  of  breeding  Angora  cats,  the  water  system  of 
the  Javanese  (have  they  any?),  how  to  travel  com- 
fortably in  Cochin  China,  the  abominable  manners  of 
German  policemen,  the  dangers  of  eating  lettuce  in 
Palestine,  etc.,  etc.    Signals  are  raised  to  all  English- 


IN    REVIEW  255 

men  everywhere,  warning  them  what  to  do  and  what 
to  leave  undone,  and  how  they  shall  accomplish  both. 
Column  upon  column  of  the  conservative  old  news- 
paper is  devoted  to  this  sort  of  correspondence  club, 
which  has  for  its  motto  that  English  classic:  preven- 
tion, to  avoid  necessity  for  cure. 

The  Englishman  at  home  reads  it  all,  carefully, 
together  with  the  answers  to  the  correspondents  of 
yesterday,  the  interminable  speech  of  Lord  X  in  the 
Upper  House  last  night,  the  latest  bulletins  concern- 
ing the  health  of  the  Duchess  of  Y.  It  is  solid,  un- 
sensational  mental  food,  and  he  digests  it  thoroughly ; 
storing  it  away  for  practical  future  use.  But  the 
foreigner,  accustomed  to  the  high  seasoning  of 
journalistic  epigram  and  the  tang  of  scandal,  finds  it 
very  dull.  Unfortunately,  the  mission  of  the  news- 
paper in  most  countries  has  become  the  promoting 
of  a  certain  group  of  men,  or  a  certain  party,  or  a 
certain  cause,  and  the  damning  of  every  other  man  or 
party  or  cause  that  stands  in  the  way.  The  English 
press  has  none  of  this  flavour.  It  is  imbued  with  the 
national  instinct  for  fair  play,  which,  while  it  by  no 
means  prohibits  lively  discussion  of  men  and  meas- 
ures, remains  strictly  impersonal  in  its  attitude  of 
attack. 

The  critic  on  the  whole  is  inclined  to  deserve  his 
title  as  it  was  originally  defined;  one  who  judges  im- 
partially, according  to  merit.  He  is  a  critic  of  men 
and  affairs,  however,  rather  than  of  art.  He  lives 
too  much  in  the  open  to  give  himself  extensively  to 
artistic  study  or  creation.     And  Englishmen  have. 


»56  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

generally  speaking,  distinguished  themselves  as  fight- 
ers, explorers,  soldiers  of  fortune,  and  as  organizers 
and  statesmen,  rather  than  as  musicians,  painters,  and 
men  of  letters. 

Especially  in  the  present  day  is  this  true.  There 
are  the  Scots  and  Shackletons,  the  Kitcheners,  Rob- 
erts, and  Curzons;  but  where  are  the  Merediths, 
Brownings,  Turners,  and  Gainsboroughs  ?  Litera- 
ture is  rather  better  off  than  the  other  arts — there  is 
an  occasional  Wells  or  Bennett  among  the  host  of 
the  merely  talented  and  painstaking;  more  than  an 
occasional  novelist  among  the  host  of  fictioneers. 
But  poets  are  few  and  uneventful,  playwrights  more 
abundant  though  tinged  with  the  charlatanism  of  the 
age;  while  as  for  the  painters,  sculptors  and  com- 
posers, in  other  countries  the  protagonists  of  the  pe- 
culiar violence  and  revolution  of  today — in  England, 
who  are  they? 

We  go  to  exhibitions  by  the  dozen,  during  the 
season,  and  listen  conscientiously  to  the  latest  tenor; 
but  seldom  do  we  see  art  or  hear  music.  In  the  past, 
the  great  English  artists  have  been  those  who  painted 
portraits,  landscapes,  or  animals ;  reproducing  out  of 
experience  the  men  and  women,  horses,  dogs,  and  out- 
of-doors  they  knew  so  well;  rather  than  creating  out 
of  imagination  dramatic  scenes  and  pictures  of  the 
struggle  and  splendour  of  life.  Their  art  has  been 
a  peaceful  art,  the  complement  rather  than  the  mir- 
ror of  the  heroic  militancy  that  always  has  domi- 
nated English  activity.  Similarly,  the  musicians — 
the  few  that  have  existed — have  surpassed  in  com- 


IN    REVIEW  267 

positions  of  the  sober,  stately  order,  oratorios,  chorals, 
hymns  and  solemn  marches.  Obviously,  peace  and 
solemnity  are  incongruous  with  the  restless,  rushing 
spirit  of  today,  to  which  the  Englishman  is  victim 
together  with  all  men,  but  which,  with  his  slower  artic- 
ulation, he  is  not  able  to  express  on  canvas  or  in 
chromatics. 

Cubism  terrifies  him;  on  the  other  hand  he  is,  for 
the  moment  at  least,  insanely  intrigued  by  ragtime. 
The  hoary  ballad,  which  "Mr.  Percy  Periwell  will 
sing  this  day  at  Southsea  Pier,"  is  giving  way  at  last 
to  syncopated  ditties  which  form  a  mere  accompani- 
ment to  the  reigning  passion  for  jigging.  No  one 
has  time  to  listen  to  singing;  everyone  must  keep 
moving,  as  fast  and  furiously  as  he  can.  There  is  a 
spice  of  tragi-comedy  in  watching  the  mad  wave  hit 
sedate  old  London,  sweeping  her  off  her  feet  and 
into  a  maze  of  frantically  risque  contortions.  Court 
edicts,  the  indignation  of  conservative  dowagers,  the 
severity  of  bishops  and  the  press — nothing  can  stop 
her;  from  Cabinet  ministers  to  house-maids,  from 
debutantes  to  duchesses,  "everybody's  doing  it,"  with 
vim  if  not  with  grace.  And  such  is  the  craze  for 
dancing,  morning,  noon  and  night,  that  every  other 
room  one  enters  has  the  aspect  of  a  salle  de  bal — 
chairs  and  sofas  stiff  against  the  walls,  a  piano  at  one 
end,  and,  for  the  rest,  shining  parquetry. 

Looking  in  at  one  of  these  desecrated  drawing- 
rooms,  where  at  the  moment  a  peer  of  the  realm  was 
teaching  a  marchioness  to  turkey-trot,  a  lady  of  the 


258  THE    MECCAS    OF    THE    WORLD 

old  order  wished  to  know  "What,  ^cciliat  would  Queen 
Victoria  say?" 

"Madam,"  replied  her  escort,  also  of  the  epoch  of 
square  dances  and  the  genteel  crinoline,  "the  late 
Queen  was  above  all  things  else  a  gentlewoman.  She 
had  no  language  with  which  to  describe  the  present 
civilization!" 

It  is  not  a  pretty  civilization,  surely;  it  is  even  in 
many  ways  a  profane  one.  Yet  in  its  very  profani- 
ties there  is  a  force,  a  tremendous  and  splendid  vital- 
ity, that  in  the  essence  of  it  must  bring  about  un- 
heard-of and  glorious  things.  Our  sentimentalism 
rebels  against  motor-buses  in  Park  Lane,  honking 
taxis  eliminating  the  discreet  hansom  of  more  leis- 
urely years;  we  await  with  mingled  awe  and  horror 
the  day  just  dawning,  when  the  sky  itself  will  be 
cluttered  with  whizzing,  whirring  vehicles.  But  give 
us  the  chance  to  go  back  and  be  rid  of  these  things — 
who  would  do  it? 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  have  long  since  crossed 
from  the  sentimental  to  the  practical.  We  are  des- 
perately, fanatically  practical  in  these  days ;  we  want 
all  we  can  get,  and  as  an  afterthought  hope  that  it 
will  benefit  us  when  we  get  it.  England  has  caught 
the  spirit  less  rapidly  than  many  of  the  nations,  but 
she  has  caught  it.  No  longer  does  she  smile  super- 
ciliously at  her  colonies;  she  wants  all  that  they  can 
give  her.  Far  from  ignoring  them,  she  is  using 
every  scheme  to  get  in  touch;  witness  the  Island  Site 
and  the  colonial  offices  fast  going  up  on  that  great 
tract  of  land  beyond  Kingsway.     No  longer  does 


IN    REVIEW  259 

she  sniff  at  her  American  cousins,  but  anxiously  looks 
to  their  support  in  the  slack  summer  season,  and  has 
everything  marked  with  dollar-signs  beforehand! 
Since  the  Entente  Cordiale,  too,  she  throws  wide  her 
doors  to  her  neighbours  from  over  the  Channel:  let 
everyone  come,  who  in  any  way  can  aid  the  old  island 
kingdom  to  realize  its  new  ideal  of  a  great  Empire 
federation. 

Doctor  John5on's  assertion  that  "all  foreigners 
are  mostly  fools,"  may  have  been  the  opinion  of  Doc- 
tor Johnson's  day;  it  is  out-of-date  in  the  present. 
English  standards  are  as  exacting,  English  judg- 
ments as  strict,  as  ever  they  were;  but  to  those  who 
measure  up  to  them,  whatever  their  race  or  previous 
history,  generous  appreciation  is  given.  And  I  know 
of  no  land  where  the  reformer,  the  scientist,  the 
philosopher — the  man  with  a  message  of  any  kind — 
is  granted  fairer  hearing  or  more  just  reward;  always 
provided  his  wares  are  trade-marked  genuine. 

"Nonsense  of  enthusiasts  is  very  different  from 
nonsense  of  ninnies,"  was  the  conclusion  of  one  of  the 
wisest  Englishmen  who  ever  lived.  And  the  critical 
country  has  adopted  it  as  a  slogan;  writing  across 
the  reverse  side  of  her  banner:  "Freedom  and  fair 
play  for  all  men." 


THE    END 


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